


Marsh-Brother

by Morningside



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Fantastic Racism, Fictional Religion & Theology, canon-compliant until it's not
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morningside/pseuds/Morningside
Summary: "Life is hard, soft-child. Be grateful that you are alive and free; that is more than many can say. Ask for anything more, and you are only asking for disappointment."After almost two centuries of crushed hopes, Brand-Shei should know that his mother was right, and the best thing you can do is to make peace with what you have.  But letting go of dreams is never quite that easy, and still he longs to know the truth of his identity.  He only wants to know what names to say at his Waiting Door, but when a pair of adventuring dragon-hunters get involved in his search, what they uncover will have the power to transform more than just one Argonian elf's private prayers.





	1. Dragonbone

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, how is there not more fic about Brand-Shei? I'm just trying to give this weird little Argonian elf some love.
> 
> I'm only, uh, 6-odd years late to this party, but so be it. There's some amazing fic in this fandom; thanks to everyone whose writing inspired me to get this on paper.

Life at the bunkhouse was hardest on Grelka because she was a Nord and thought she deserved better. Everything in her Nordic soul rebelled at being the only human in Haelga’s motley clientele. Her wounded pride was like an open sore, and Brand-Shei couldn’t help but feel for her. He just wished she wouldn’t take it out so on the rest of them. She was especially hard on Madesi, who refused to stand up for himself. Brand-Shei tried to tell her off, once, but she just called him a freak and threatened to tell his customers he was cheating them if he didn’t mind his own business. Just one more reminder: in Riften, you kept your nose out of other people’s affairs.

If any of them truly deserved better, it was poor Madesi. He was a skilled craftsman, not like the rest of them, and in a kinder world he would have a home and shop like Balimund. But his scaly skin and the low demand for finery during these dark days kept him from kept him from accruing the wealth his nimble claws should have earned him. So poverty had him spend his evenings in the bunkhouse, and his fondness for the damp plus Grelka’s bullying had him spend his nights down in Beggar’s Row. But the hard wisdom of a thousand years of oppression had gifted Madesi with the art of Argonian indifference, and he never complained.

It was a lesson that Brand-Shei’s mother had taught him since he was small. _Life is hard, soft-child. Be grateful that you are alive and free; that is more than many can say. Ask for anything more, and you are only asking for disappointment._

Brand-Shei had never quite mastered that defensive unconcern, but he was nonetheless happy just to have a roof over his head and a table in the square to call his own. He’d come a long way from following a Khajiit caravan, cleaning their wares in exchange for leftover food and lessons in their language. Eating Haelga’s slop and bathing in the lake wasn’t so bad as sleeping on the ground. At least Riften’s working poor had work. The Ratway below reminded them that life could always be worse.

But now times were hard, and work was slow, and the nights were becoming increasingly frequent when Brand-Shei needed to pay Haelga in his precious wares, or else end up on the street.

Which meant that newcomers in the marketplace drew his attention like a slaughterfish to blood. A pair of travelers: one a Dunmer in mage’s robes, the other completely encased in menacing chitin armor – likely another dark elf, but impossible to tell beneath that helmet. Brand-Shei glanced around the tables; of course the others had noticed as well. Madesi was fretfully rearranging his rings, and Grelka had managed to plaster something like a smile across her hard face.

But they were entering on Brand-Shei’s side of the causeway, praise Azura, which meant he would get first crack at their business.

“Fine goods from Morrowind, brother!” he called to the mage. “Can I interest you in a taste of the old country?’

The traveler looked up from where he was giving a coin to Edda and waved in acknowledgement. A kind soul in Riften; Brand-Shei hoped he wouldn’t be robbed blind. The probable mercenary at his elbow looked rather less pleasant company, and Brand-Shei had to fight to keep the smile on his face as he loomed toward the table. But then the armored one whooped in excitement – “Ash yams!” – and the pair descended, eager as a pair of boys.

At long last, a sale. Brand-Shei’s palms tingled in anticipation.

His excitement only grew as they set aside a growing pile of goods. The ash yams were joined by his entire stock of netch leather, some dried Morrowind peppers, and a few prized bottles of sujamma, as well as a truly impressive stash of potions. He made a merchant’s small talk, pointing them towards his ground scathecraw and lamenting the difficulty of transporting matze. They happily snapped it all up, bantering with each other all the while.

“Another sujamma, Teldryn? Really?”

“I did the work. My cut, my choices.”

“Just don’t drink it all at once, s’wit. You snore like a troll when you’re drunk, and then they’ll kick us both out of the inn.”

“Molag’s balls - after making it out of that damned crypt, I’ll drink what I want, you tyrant.”

“Fine, sera, just don’t go looking for me when you find yourself in the gutter!”

The second one, Teldryn, gave a mocking little bow. “But of course, most honored employer. Now,” the helmet turned back to Brand-Shei, “is that Argonian bloodwine that I see?”

There it was, then: a pair of adventurers, mage and mercenary, heavy with coin from their spoils. These few minutes would let him pay off his debts to Haelga, and keep him in the bunkhouse for a month besides. The gods were finally smiling on him.

You never could tell with mages, but this one seemed a bit mild-mannered to be digging through crypts: slender build, handsome face beneath a neatly trimmed red beard. The kind of mer who gave coins to beggars and sighed fondly at a hireling’s insolence. But here he was, making quips about draugr. Hence the need for the bug-like mercenary, Brand-Shei supposed.

But then this kindly-looking mage pulled out a massive bone from his pack and thunked it down on Brand-Shei’s table. “I think it’s time to settle our accounts, before we clear you out entirely. How much can you give us for this, sera?”

“What in Azura’s name is that? Did you take down a mammoth?”

A dangerous smirk flashed across the mage’s face. “Hardly. We took down a dragon.”

Brand-Shei’s blood ran cold. “This bone is…?”

“From a dragon that will no longer be bothering the Rift.”

“Azura,” he whispered, running his finger over the creamy bone. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed to radiate an unnatural warmth.

“I know it’s worth something, we’ve gotten good money for them before, but it’s heavy enough that we’ll give you a good price just to get it off our backs. Or I’ve got some dragon scales, if that’d be of any interest.”

Before. These two had taken down multiple dragons. “I…I don’t know where I’d even trade such a thing.”

“It’s harder than ebony, and infinitely more rare. I’ve heard it used for weapons, jewelry…a trophy in the home of some lord with a taste for the exotic.”

Brand-Shei’s hands fluttered anxiously over the prize. “Serjo, the war has stopped the caravans coming. Perhaps I could find a buyer in the city, but if not…” he shrugged helplessly, “I’ll be stuck with it. And I have no idea what it might be worth.”

“Are there any other merchants in the city who might have better luck?”

“You’re welcome to try, but we’re all in the same boat here.”

The two looked at each other for a long moment. The mage tilted his chin down, prompting Teldryn to sigh and throw up his hands. “Fine, fine. But if he falls through, it’s coming out of your share. And Mephala will laugh at your soft heart!”

“Naturally,” he smiled triumphantly, then turned back to Brand-Shei. “So, sera, here is our offer. We leave this here with you, and you get what you can for it. Next time we’re back in Riften, you pay us our fair share, and if we’re happy with it, we’ll bring you more.”

“Serjos, you’re in _Riften_. You’d just…trust me like that? A stranger?”

Teldryn’s goggled face leaned in, slow and menacing. “We trust you not to betray a pair of mer who hunt dragons for sport. You aren’t stupid enough to cross us…are you, sera?”

“Teldryn! Stop scaring our new friend! Ignore him, sera. If you can just draw us up a contract, I’ll sign it, and we’ll be on our way.”

Brand-Shei paused. He couldn’t ordinarily afford a meal outside Haelga’s fare, but if these two were about to become his suppliers of dragon bones and gods knew what other rarities… It was a risk, but he knew a promising investment when he saw one.

“Since we’re new friends, let’s sign over dinner. Perhaps this could be a profitable arrangement for both of us, going forward. Could you meet me at the Bee and Barb tonight? Talen-Jei makes some remarkable drinks.”

“You don’t need to ask me twice,” said Teldryn.

The mage glanced to the sky in exasperation. “It would be our pleasure, brother. I’m Erebis Adlam, and this wretch is Teldryn Sero.”

Brand-Shei steeled himself behind a placid smile. Dark elves often reacted the worst. “And I’m Brand-Shei.”

A moment of silence, and then: “Brand-Shei?!” Teldyrn did not disappoint. “What in Oblivion kind of name of Brand-Shei?”

“Teldryn!” Erebis snapped again, this time unamused.

“It’s my kind of name, sera.” _Indifference_ , he told himself, willing the flush of blood from his face. _Learn from Madesi. Learn from your mother._ “I may be dark elf by birth, but I was raised Argonian. I don’t know the whole story, but I can tell you what I do know over dinner, if you wish to hear it.”

Erebis nodded. “We look forward to it, brother Brand-Shei. But first: what do we owe you for all this?”

It came out to nearly 500 septims, not counting whatever he owed them for the bone. Brand-Shei shook Erebis’s hand profusely, hoping he wasn’t embarrassing himself with the plainness of his relief.

Then they were off to the other sellers. Grelka was glaring at him for receiving the first flush of their beneficence, but oh, this money would keep him afloat for weeks.

And tonight. There might be a business arrangement in the works, but what made his heart sing was the knowledge that he would tell them his story, and put another two sets of eyes and ears out into the world, and perhaps these would finally be the ones to find what he needed to know. Foolish of him to keep hoping, but if anyone stood a chance of finding his story, it might be a pair of adventuring Dunmer dragon-hunters.

 

* * *

 

Talen-Jei’s signature Cliff Racer tasted like victory. Brand-Shei couldn’t afford to buy too many, and he certainly couldn’t afford to lose his wits, but one drink, on one night…he hadn’t felt this much peace in months. The papers were all signed in the name of the Three, the dragon bone was reverently placed in the chest at the end of his bunk, and now they could talk.

Teldryn - scarf pulled down from his mouth so he could drink, but face still covered by helmet and goggles - was in the middle of a tale about stumbling on a pack of cave bears.

“So I run in, firebolt at the ready,” he demonstrated, making flames flare in his palms, “ready to take the beasts down, when _this_ s’wit hits me with a paralysis spell.”

“ _I’m_ the s’wit?’ You’re the one who dashed in front of me without warning! How many times have I told –”

“There were _bears!_ ”

“And I had said that perhaps we didn’t need to slaughter them all, just the boars that had been causing trouble. Hence the paralysis. And we could get far more for the pelts if you didn’t singe them to a crisp.”

“Mephala’s tits, you wanted to be nice to _bears_. Unbelievable. So next thing I know, I’m frozen on the ground. Can’t move, face in the dirt, but I can still hear everything: seven bears roaring, my esteemed employer shrieking like a Breton,”

“I was _not_ –”

“Air thick with fireballs, just like I had wanted to do from the start. Bears screaming, the stench of burning fur, the works. By the time I come around, Erebis here is standing in the middle of seven charred ursine lumps, with a look on his face like he just saw Molag Bal himself. So much for saving the hides!”

“I could hardly be careful when I was on my own against the pack, and you were lying there helpless on the ground.”

“Because you _paralyzed me_.”

“Because you broke the plan and ran ahead.”

“Because there were _seven bears!_ ”

“We got the bounty and lived to tell the tale, you miserable fetcher. What are you complaining for?”

“Vengeance, boss. And you always buy the next round when I remind you how much you owe me for that one.”

Erebis rolled his eyes melodramatically. “So that’s the two of us, sera. Dragons, draugr, the occasional bear or seven. What of you? You said there was a story to tell?”

So he told them. His first memories in Black Marsh, where an Argonian family was miraculously inspired to take in an orphaned Dunmer infant. The sunlight through the trees, the whisper of the Hist through the roots. How he traveled to Blacklight after he outgrew the brood, searching for his people and his language and his ancestors. How he was quickly pushed out by elves who hated his ignorance and his strange ways. His years as an acolyte in the temple on Solstheim (the frontier is always more forgiving of difference), where he learned to pray to the Reclamations and to build a Waiting Door to his unknown ancestors. His attempt to return to his brood-family, but how a resurgence of An-Xileel made it unsafe for any non-Saxhleel to be within the marsh. His time with the Khajiit caravan, studying their ways, earning their trust, and searching for information about his past until he at last came to Riften, where he saw this city where men and mer and beast could live side by side, and at once peeled off so he could use his small savings to buy his booth and wares. Everyone knew Riften was rotten, but it could be home for someone like him.

“Now, I know it’s odd for a new acquaintance to tell you his whole life’s tale in a single go, but I promise I have good reason. All my life, in all my travels, I’ve been searching for something, anything about my parents. I need to know what ancestors are watching over me.”

Erebis stared at him intensely. “Do you have any clues about your past?”

"Just one. I know when I was found by my Argonian father, I was wrapped in a blanket bearing the symbol of House Telvanni. Whether that means I was one of them or not, I'm uncertain.” He took a deep breath and returned Erebis’s gaze. “If you come across anything in your travels that might provide me with the answers I'm looking for, I'd be grateful."

“Why did you follow the cats to Skyrim?” Teldryn asked. He was picking at his nails with his dagger in apparent disinterest, but apparently he had been listening.

"I learned that a matron who had served House Telvanni had escaped Morrowind during the Accession War. Records showed her buying passage aboard a sailing vessel named _The Pride of Tel Vos_ , headed for Windhelm, but that's where the trail ran cold. I spent years looking for what became of the ship, but I ended up empty-handed."

“Did you check the records in Windhelm? Solitude?” Erebis asked. “Was there anything left of the East Empire Company while you were in Solstheim?”

He shook his head. “I went through everything they would let me see. No luck.”

“We’ll keep an eye out, then. No promises, but if we learn anything…”

“That’s all I ask. Thank you, brother.”

 

* * *

 

Tucked into the bottom drawer of his bedside table was his meager attempt at a Waiting Door. He opened it delicately so as to not jostle the contents arrayed within: a shrouded arch of dark stone representing the passage to Oblivion, a worn carving of Azura’s star purchased outside her temple in Blacklight, a few pebbles from Black Marsh, a bag of ash from Solstheim, a handful of feathers like the ones he used to weave into his hair as a child to imitate his siblings’ beautiful crests. And most precious of all, a filthy scrap of fabric from the blanket that his parents had found him in. They said it had once been brilliant saffron, woven with red designs belonging to the house of the wizards, but the damp of the marsh had rotted the fine fabric away. It was tattered and pale by the time he saw it as a child, and carelessness in his younger years had worn it away to nearly nothing. All were priceless artifacts to him, but a drawer of trash to the rest of the world. Praise Azura for that – nothing here would attract a thief.

He pulled out a small ceramic bowl, placed a few shaved ash yam skins into it, and covered them with a pinch of incense. Sitting cross-legged before the little altar, he held the bowl in his hands and filled his palms with flames until the yam skins began to curl and smolder. Normally he would not risk disturbing his bunkmates with offerings at this hour, but some occasions could not be allowed to pass unmarked. He inhaled the smoke and waited, settling into the trust that someone was waiting for him beyond the door.

When he found the conviction that, on the other side of the shadows, some presence was mirroring his pose, he began to pray.

_Blessed ancestors, I thank you that you have brought me to this day. I cannot honor you with a fence or a name, and yet I know you have never left my side._

Saxhleel did not understand time as did other races. Mer and men divided the universe into past, present, and future, but natives of Black Marsh lived in an endless “now.” This was not, as some claimed, evidence of the Argonians’ simplicity; the Jel language had fiendishly complicated rules for indicating how something was or was not physically or causally present in a given moment. But it was true that they did not think in terms of before and after, so the Dunmer practice of honoring one’s ancestors seemed to them the height of foolishness. It was not until he met a captive Dunmer in his third decade that he learned that his no-longer-here forebears might have some bearing on his life.

_Lead me into the true trial of the Three, and shield me from the gaze of the Four._

“A son of Morrowind living as a beast?” the old woman had spat at the sight of his face paint and feathers. “Your ancestors are weeping, boy.”

“Ancestors?” he approached, hungry to talk to someone who looked like him, even if she was calling his family beasts. “Who are ancestors, and how are they mine?”

“Do you truly not know? Ancestors. Your father’s mothers, and your mother’s fathers, who hear your prayers and watch your steps. Unless they have abandoned you in shame!”

“How is that? My mother’s fathers must be dead.”

The woman gave him a long look then shook her head, her disgust melting into sadness. “Blessed Reclamations, what have we become? Boethia give you the strength to overcome what they have done to you.”

_Do not spare me from the test, but show me the way towards triumph, and strengthen my will to persevere over all that would lead me astray._

The old captive had spoken to him in scorn, but the more he dwelled on that word, _ancestors_ , the more it had filled a part of his soul that he had not known was empty. When he thought of his lost parents’ lost parents watching him, his blood seemed to burn with a special heat.

After a few days, he could ignore that heat no longer, so he worked up the courage to ask his father what he knew about his mother’s fathers.

“That is not a Saxhleel question,” Ducks-the-Spears had responded flatly. “They are reborn again through the Hist. They walk with our people anew.”

“Yes, but…who are they, when they are not-in-the-now? Do they know that they are ours, and we are theirs?”

“Where are you learning to ask such things, soft-child?”

He told he father of the old Dunmer, and of the fire that her words had awakened in his veins. Ducks-the-Spears had listened, curling his tail around him in sadness as he realized that his son had been claimed by hateful elf-dead and would not be reborn to the clan.

_Teach me to walk in the path of right teaching, and so forge the path of right action, that I might prove myself worthy of your favor._

It was not long after that that he had left for Blacklight. His memories of the city where his own race had found him abhorrent were still hot with shame, but he had learned what he needed to know. Ancestors were the breath and birthright of a Dunmer – even, apparently, one raised to hear the whisper of the Hist.

 _I…I just want to know who you are. Please, let these two be the ones who can lead me to you. If you can talk to_ their _ancestors, please, tell them to keep them safe from dragons and draugr and whatever else, and to help them find what I’m looking for. Adlam and Sero, those are their names. Tell them I’ll make offerings to them, if they can just help me find you. Anything you want, anything they want, just… Oh, you don’t want to hear me rambling like this. The Three don’t care for begging. This weakness isn’t how I do you proud._

He took a deep breath of the incense and tried to clear his mind.

_Lord Boethia, teach me power and perseverance over trouble. Lord Mephala, teach me knowledge and its proper wielding. Lord Azura, teach me discernment in the interplay of shadows and light. Power, knowledge, discernment. Ancestors, show me the way._

When only fragrant ash remained in the bowl, he circled his thumb in it, then smeared it on the arch of his Waiting Door. He stood, and with a final bow to each of the four corners of the room, the ritual was complete. He tucked himself into bed and blew out the candle.

The smell of incense was still thick in the air as he drifted off to sleep. Grelka was going to be furious in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes! I figure that Brand-Shei’s life can’t be confined to Black Marsh and Riften; despite his line about only being “Dunmer by birth,” he acts like a Dunmer, not like an Argonian in a Dunmer body. He prays to Dunmer gods, he somehow has connections to trade from Morrowind…and he’s obsessed with discovering more about his heritage. He might be barely scraping out a living, but he’s been around his people in some capacity. Hence his itinerant past in this story before he settled down in Riften.
> 
> Riften...I kinda love Riften, y’all. Sure, it’s rotten to the core, but where else can Argonians own an inn that’s frequented by people of all races? In its weird, corrupt way, it’s the most open city in all of Skyrim.
> 
> Erebis is my current LDB. He’s an insufferable do-gooder (at least until he’s roasting your face off and stealing your soul to enchant a ring) and I love him dearly. He’s gonna be a minor character in this, but a bit of his story should come out later.
> 
> Teldryn doesn’t like bears. Headcanon that Morrowind Dunmer are so used to insectoid animals that they find non-sentient mammals profoundly unsettling.


	2. Advertisement

Flanking the bridge to the Riften marketplace were a pair of lampposts used for public messages. Layers of old advertisements, wanted posters, and crude drawings covered them like the peeling bark of the Rift’s aspen trees. Paper piled riotously on top of paper, growing outward until the rain came and caused them to shed great sodden sheets of flyers down into the canal.

But for all their chaos, they were effective. Hungry eyes were quick to spot any new information – a new bounty, new call for laborers. If Brand-Shei wanted the whole city to know he was in possession of a dragonbone, all he would need to do is pin up a flyer and wait.

If only it were that easy. He would write up an advertisement and wait to be robbed, most likely. He might have a locked chest, but Haelga’s was hardly secure; the knowledge that his prize was sitting unattended had his skin feeling too tight. So he would need to use more subtle means of finding a buyer.

Erebis had mentioned something about weapons and armor, so Brand-Shei made his way to Balimund as the sun rose. The first rays of the day’s heat lifted a faintly reeking mist from the canals, clouding the air with the smell of fish and debris that mingled with sharp, hot metal as he drew nearer to the forge. Even at this early hour, the city was abuzz with activity as laborers threaded over the canals to begin their days of catching fish or brewing mead.

He peered over the edge of a bridge and saw the serpentine glint of an Argonian back cutting through the water below, smooth wake marred only by the waterproof pack that trailed behind it. The sight still filled him with a kind of longing; no matter how comfortable he felt in the water, his tailless body would never have that sleek grace. Part of the trouble of living in Riften was that landlocked locations let him forget that he had learned to swim before he could walk, but here, the instinct to jump into a canal always lurked in the back of his mind. But he knew better, that the momentary pleasure would not be worth the attention that an aquatic elf would draw. Plus, the city’s waterways were hardly clean, and his too-thin skin had none of the toughness of Saxhleel scales. He pushed his hair back out of his face and moved on.

Balimund was pumping the bellows to bring his forge to life. He looked up quizzically when Brand-Shei stopped in front of him, sweat cutting rivulets on his sooty face despite the relative cool of the dawn. He liked the smith, who let Madesi rent his forge, but they rarely had reason to talk.

“Brand-Shei. Don’t see you here much. Have you finally decided to buy yourself a real weapon?”

“Morning to you, Balimund. Just some nails, I think. My booth could use some repairs.” Not a lie, precisely, but no need for Balimund to know that he had plenty of nails in stock. “You know, I’ve been thinking of adding on an awning to protect my customers from the sun, but for now I just want to tighten up the corners. Need to look sharp to attract business!”

“Some nails.” The smith huffed out an unamused breath. “Always good to start off the day with a big sale.”

“I’ve told you my feelings on the matter – carrying around a great big sword is like to invite more trouble than it keeps away. But if you’d prefer I go to Bersi…”

It was a transparent ploy, and they both knew it. “Don’t play games, I’ll take your coppers. Just give me a moment to get this fire going.”

“But of course,” Brand-Shei nodded and perched against Balimund’s workbench. _Easy, now_. “How goes business? This war has been a curse for us in the square, what with the trouble it gives the caravans.”

“Booming,” Balimund grunted as he shoveled more coal on the fire. “There’s never a shortage of demand for good steel when there’s a war on.”

“Stormcloaks, Imperials…they do all need swords. I suppose it _is_ a good time to be a smith. Perhaps I should’ve learned your trade for myself, could’ve set myself up with an anvil and a home of my own. Hard work, but it seems a good life. Ah, but it’s too late for all that now. I just pray that this war will be over soon. And then there’s this talk of dragons! Can’t imagine that’s helped the caravans any. Has it affected your business at all?”

“How so? Not many people buying blades to take down dragons.”

“Oh, I’ve heard talk.” _Keep it meaningless. Let him think you the fool_. He took a breath and leaned harder in the cool edge of the workbench, praying it would keep the jitteriness from his voice. “Old trader’s stories that dragon parts could be used for weapons and armor. Now wouldn’t that be a sight! A warrior fighting with the bones of a dragon he slayed! Think you could hone a blade from a dragonbone if you got the chance?”

“Dragonbone?” the burly Nord turned momentarily from the flames. “I can perform miracles with steel, not the stuff of legends. I don’t know if there’s a smith alive that has that knowledge, if there ever was one.”

Brand-Shei’s fingers clenched the bench in disappointment, but he kept his voice light. “Ah, pity. I tell you what, though – if you do ever hear of such a thing, let me know. I’d like to see a dragonbone sword before I die. Truly, we live in a time of legends! Dragons!”

“Yeah. Amazing.” The scorn wrenched his guts in a too-familiar twist, but better that than further questions.

“Or even just a giant’s club,” he nattered on. “I’ve only even seen those from a great distance, back when I traveled. I bet I couldn’t lift one with both hands if I tried. Maybe you could, though, strong man like you. Wouldn’t that be a sight! Ah, but that’s enough of me wagging my tongue at you. Ready for me to buy those nails?” He gave Balimund the coins for a handful of nails and then was off to his stand.

So the smith was not going to be his answer. A pity – Balimund would have been an easy solution, and was an honest man besides. But Brand-Shei had not lived this long in Riften without making a few contacts.

Riften was not so large a city, off at the edge of Skyrim, and – at least outside the Ratway – rich and poor mingled more freely than in the grander holds. But even then, a street vendor could hardly march up to a thane uninvited – especially not if he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself. But there were links connecting even the lowliest citizen with the jarl herself, if only one knew how to look for them. _Webspinner, lord of cunning, show me which thread to pull._

Taljee-Wei worked at the fishery and made regular deliveries of salted salmon to Mistveil Keep. A few septims accompanied by some quiet Jel flattery were enough to convince her to hand a sealed note to a Bosmer maid in the palace, who could in turn place a few choice words in the ear of Anuriel. If any in Jarl Laila’s court might be interested in the bone, Anuriel should know who they were. The gratitude incurred by connecting a wealthy patron with a rare item would be enough to motivate her.

Or so he hoped.

The rest of the day was slow, and made slower by his anxiety, and by Grelka’s incessant glaring. She had greeted him by threatening to beat him the next time she woke up “stinking like dirty elf necromancy.” When Marlise came around with her lunch cart, Brand-Shei bought enough to share with her, and Madesi besides. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she scowled as she accepted the bread and smoked fish, but it was enough to quiet her for the afternoon. Still, he dreaded having to face her at the bunkhouse.

He needn’t have worried, however – not because she had learned tolerance, but because there was more than enough to distract her that night. As Brand-Shei was filling his mug with watery ale, Ungrien, the bunkhouse’s lone Bosmer, burst through the doors.

“Everyone, have you heard the news? Sibbi Black-Briar has been arrested!”

The low buzz of chatter erupted into shocked exclamations. Tythis gave a whoop and herded him to the main table. “Serves the bastard right! Tell us everything! Svana, get this mer some mead!”

“Well, I was delivering some mead to the keep,” Ungrien continued breathlessly, “and as I was heading home, I passed a group of guards that had him in chains! Sibbi Black-Briar!” His amber eyes, normally tight with worry, were shining wide with excitement in the dining room’s candlelight. “I asked a guard what had happened, and he said it was for murder!”

Brand-Shei stifled a gasp and practically leapt to the circle forming around the Bosmer. Jarl Laila might sit on Riften’s throne, but everyone knew that the real center of power in the Rift was Black-Briar Manor. With money from their mead empire and other, less legal means, they could buy off anyone they wanted and bully anyone who resisted into submission. They were the heart of Riften’s corruption, and their ties to the Thieves’ Guild were the reason that so many crimes went unpunished. But if the court tried to do anything about it, their matriarch Maven could just take their meadery elsewhere, and with it half of the city’s economy. The only thing worse than the Black-Briars would be their absence.

And yet… A warrior named Mjoll had recently come into town and started a one-woman crusade to save Riften from itself. So far, she had mostly been received as a joke, but if a Black-Briar was in the jail, then perhaps she was making progress convincing the jarl that things needed to change. The Guild’s power had been waning for some time; perhaps the Black-Briar reign of terror was coming to its end. He realized he was breathing almost as fast as Ungrien.

“Murder?” asked Wujeeta. “But that’s old news. Everyone knows he killed that stupid boy over a week ago. Did he get the sister now, too?”

“No, same murder, I think. It sounded like it was over his fiancée’s brother. Well,” he amended, “ex-fiancée, now.”

“Then it’s a fine day for Riften,” Brand-Shei raised his cup, elated. “He thought he got away with it, but it looks like not even a Black-Briar is above the law, after all!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Niluva scoffed at him, instantly curdling his excitement. She might be little better than a beggar now, but her aristocratic Hlaalu voice could still convey scorn even beyond normal dark elf superiority. He hated her a bit for that, that this sorry skooma addict who could barely keep a job skinning fish could so easily make him feel like pond scum. “If Sibbi Black-Briar is in jail, then it’s because Maven wants him there. Why do you think it’s taken the guard so long to round him up? She was deciding on the appropriate punishment for embarrassing the family. The jarl’s justice has nothing to do with it.” She was right, of course, which only made it all the worse. He buried his face in his cup.

“Still satisfying to know one of them is cooling his heels like a common criminal,” Ungrien cut back in. “If it’s Maven’s doing, so much the better. If this keeps them distracted by their family squabbles for a bit, then perhaps they won’t have so much energy to terrorize the rest of us.”

“Or, more likely, this will just make Maven’s short temper even shorter, and she’ll be looking to take out her frustrations on, oh, some unlucky mead server.” Niluva gave Ungrien an unpleasant smile, and he flinched.

“Oh, gods. Do you really think she could get _worse_?”

“Peace, friend,” Madesi tried to comfort him. “Just do your work and say nothing of this. You’ve made it this far.” Behind them, Niluva snorted and rolled her red eyes.

Grelka spit on the ground, earning a cry of displeasure from Svana. “I don’t see why this matters to us. The Black-Briars will play their games, but no matter what, the rest of us will get fucked all the same.”

“And that’s the truth of it!” Tythis barked out a laugh. “All people like us can do is keep our heads down and hope that the fucking is occasionally an enjoyable one.”

“Yes, yes,” Wujeeta raised her mug. “But a toast to Sibbi Black-Briar for getting mud on his stinking family’s face. Just imagine that piece of shit’s surprise when the guards put him in chains…and then again when he realized that his precious grandmother wasn’t going come save him. All their hides must be burning with shame tonight. We are going to remember this day for _years_.”

“Cheers!”

“Cheers!”

“To Sibbi, and to our inevitable fucking! May it be at least a bit pleasurable!”

Brand-Shei watched as Ungrien groaned and drained his glass.  _Good luck, friend.  You're going to need it.  We're all going to need it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Balimund, enter Black-Briars, enter the Bunkhouse crew.
> 
> I've been trying to read up on lore, but I'm still very new to this fandom so would much appreciate hearing if anything feels off the mark.


	3. Maven

When Maven Black-Briar showed her face in the marketplace, it was always to make a point. She had enough wealth and sway that she could send servants to purchase whatever she needed, so if she made a personal appearance, it meant that she had a reason for being seen. The consequences of such a visit were rarely pleasant for her intended audience.

And so, when she stepped over the bridge just before midday, flanked by a pair of hulking private guards, Brand-Shei sucked in a breath and knew that every merchant was holding their breath. Had someone been fool enough to sell her a bad product, or fail to repay a debt? Gods, had she somehow caught wind of their mocking gossip the night before? He locked eyes with Madesi, who anxiously flared out his feathers, then set about rearranging his rings.

Despite the rock in the pit of his stomach, he instinctively assessed her look. A strong, hard frame for a human of her age, attesting to a hearty but disciplined diet. Her attire was well-made but simple, the only ostentation a glinting family crest on the hilt of her dagger. Brand-Shei sometimes sold bolts of Morrowind silk to members of the Black-Briar family, but never Maven. She didn’t need finery to announce her status; the way the crowds parted for her and her entourage made that clear enough.

He tried to imagine what he would hawk to her if she were a normal customer, but nothing in his motley collection of battered used wares and exotic imports fit anything he could read of her tastes. There was nothing at his stall to attract the attention of the true ruler of the Rift…unless…

_Please, Lord Azura, not her!_

Maven was taking a slow circuit of the stalls, looking down her long nose at the wares and their sellers. She had to see what kind fear she inspired by menacing innocent vendors. She had to _enjoy_ it, the absolute sadist, to be circling the market before coming in for the kill. He felt a flare of loathing for this woman so happy to abuse her power, but it transmuted into dread as she looked up from Grelka’s assortment of worn armor and fixed him with a long, slow smirk.

Honored ancestors and blessed Three, she was coming for him. He made a triangle with his fingers below the edge of his booth. _Strengthen me for the time of my proving._

“When is an elf not an elf?” she wondered aloud, a predatory glint in her eye.  Maven Black-Briar was at his stall, speaking to him. This was bad. Very bad. His blood pounded in his ears. “It sounds like something out of a book of riddles, but in fact it’s just a merchant in our market. Hello, Brand-Shei.”

“Maven,” he croaked. He tried to summon his vendor’s pleasantries but found only dread. “I…I hadn’t…I didn’t know you knew me. I thought a humble merchant like myself would be beneath your notice.”

“Of course not, Brand-Shei,” it was like she was tasting his name, preparing to bite down. “Nothing in my city is beneath my notice. You never know when someone might have something _interesting_ to offer.”

“Riften’s finest selection of goods from Morrowind, right here. What can I get for you, ma’am?”

She lifted her chin to regard him. “I’ve heard tell that you have something special in your possession, though I don’t think it’s from Morrowind.”

Who had betrayed him? _Too many links in the chain, too many places for a break._ Taljee-Wei? Anuriel? What did Grelka overhear? Had Balimund deduced more than he let on? _No way to ask Maven without as good as confessing that I was trying to keep the bone a secret, and then I’m done for. This cursed, corrupt city!_

“Plenty of unique wares at my stand. May I ask what you mean?”

She crossed her arms and sneered. Corners take him for a fool, that wasn’t the right thing to say. “Don’t play stupid. I’m already sufficiently annoyed that you didn’t come straight to me. You have a dragonbone and I want it. Show it to me now, before I lose my good mood entirely, and I’ll even pay you a good price for it.”

He forced a smile onto his face. “Of course, ma’am. You only needed to say the word. It’s only…” His legs were trembling. “…I don’t have it with me right now. You know how thingss are. Ssomething that valuable, it’ss locked up ssomewhere ssafe.”

He could hear his cursed mouth elongating his cursed sibilants, as it still did under stress. Over a century and a half since he had left the marsh, and he still hissed when he was afraid.

“Then I’ll be waiting upstairs at the Bee and Barb. Go get it and meet me there."

“I’ll just need some time to lock up my stall, here. I’m ss-ssorry,” he swallowed and willed his traitor tongue back under control, “I can’t just leave my wares unattended, but I’ll be right –”

“I said _now_ , elf.” She shot a look at one of her thugs, who nodded and marched up to the booth. “But your things won’t be unattended. My man will keep an eye on them. I can assure you that no one will…disrespect…his presence while you’re gone.”

As much as he hated the idea of leaving his booth in the hands of hired Black-Briar muscle, he knew he wasn’t being given a choice. “Thank you Maven. The Bee and Barb, fast as I can.” He bowed, then took off at a jog.

“I’m watching you, elf!” a guard barked as he rounded a corner, causeway boards rumbling beneath his feet. Running in Riften was never a good idea. There was no better way to look suspicious than to look like you were headed somewhere in a hurry. But right now, he feared Maven’s ire more than any guard’s annoyance.

Shameful, to be so easily bent to the will of another. All the more shameful for her to witness his weakness. But before the teachings of Elder Mannurani on Solstheim were the lessons of his mother. _Choose your battles, and fight them carefully. The greatest victory of all is to live to fight another day_.

Damn it all, this was exactly what he had wanted to avoid. He had worked so hard to keep his nose clean and stay out of Maven’s orbit. He knew the rumors about why she was so powerful, and what happened to those who dared defy her, but until now, he had managed keep himself below her notice. _The one time I get my hands on something special, the_ one time _I dream of achieving something more, here she is, ready to take it all away._

Oh, she had money, and she was likely to be generous with it, but Maven’s patronage was never without a catch. She paid handsomely because she bought people, not just their wares.

And yet…she wanted a dragonbone. He wanted money. It was a perfectly honest transaction. Triune bless him, perhaps they could both profit from each other and be on their way.

He wrapped the bone in a burlap sack, drew the triangle of the Reclamations over his heart, and headed to the Bee and Barb.

 

* * *

 

“The usual spread,” Maven barked out to Talen-Jei as she breezed into the inn. “I’ll be upstairs."

“Right away, Maven.” The Argonian behind the counter knucked his forehead respectfully, but she could hear the resentment in that flat, unnatural voice. It was a familiar song, that begrudging obedience granted her by the weak. _Let them hate me all they want. Their greed and cowardice always win out in the end._

Talen-Jei, though – his muttering about the Guild had been growing more overt of late. Perhaps she would need to send him a message. Tell her associates to blacklist his business for a week, that would remind him where he stood.  Especially given this business with Sibbi, now was not a time to let things slip.

The other lizard, Keerava, was occupying the table at the top of the stairs, where she was hunched over a battered ledger. Maven was happy Talen-Jei kept the front of the house; the female’s ghostly complexion and bony crest were immensely more off-putting than the male’s green scales. She wondered if the lizards knew that or if the arrangement was just a happy accident. When Keerava saw Maven, she leapt up from her seat with a hasty apology and set about wiping down the table. She fled down the steps and reappeared moments later with two bottles of her Reserve and a tray of food, which she set down with a ghastly approximation of a smile.

“On the house, as always, Maven.”

“Don’t tell me what I already know, girl,” she snapped back. She gave the Argonian pair bulk prices on her mead and in return they served her whatever she wanted. A neat way to keep tabs on this wretched little city’s best inn, even if it did mean being served by godsforsaken boots. They had their use, to be sure. She just preferred not to think of their claws touching her food.

Thankfully, Talen-Jei’s cooking was good enough outweigh his hideousness. She picked at the assortment of roasted vegetables and smoked fish while she pondered how best to call him to heel. _Perhaps not a full blacklist, at least not at first. Just a little shakedown, see if that does the job._

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone rapidly ascending the stairs. The nervous little elf Brand-Shei scurried up, clutching a burlap sack to his chest like he was afraid it would disappear. He had not an ounce of subtlety; the fact that he carried something valuable was clearer than the sun at midday. He was a skinny thing in ratty clothes with a dagger that barely qualified as a hairpin at his belt. Everything about him was practically begging to be robbed. He was lucky that she had told Brynjolf to spread the word that he was off limits for the time being.

She saw he was gasping slightly under his burden. Sweat, gray like pebbles over his skin, beaded along his high elven hairline. Taking off at a run hadn’t just been for show, then. He made for a pathetic sight, but one that would have her smiling to herself for days to come. It was so nice to see someone who so clearly understood his place.

“Lady Maven,” he panted. “Thank you for your patience.”

“Brand-Shei,” she nodded and gestured to the other chair. He pulled it out, then perched precariously on the edge, arms still wrapped around the sack. She raised a bottle. “Black-Briar Reserve? I make a point of sharing my best with all my associates.”

His fingers fidgeted with the burlap. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but I make a point of never drinking when there’s still work to be done, and there’s plenty of daylight left once we’ve concluded our business here.”

 _How charming, that he thinks he can demure_. “Such a hard worker. So often the first at your stall and the last to leave.” His alien eyes widened at that. Did he really think her so ignorant of her city? “With what I’m about to pay you here, I do believe you’ve earned yourself an afternoon off. Don’t you agree?” Without waiting for a response, she began to fill a cup.

“I…thank you, Maven.” His face, long even for an elf, pulled into a smile that didn’t touch those eyes as he accepted the drink. She watched as he took a deep swig and hummed out his appreciation of the quality. There was no sincerity in the acknowledgement, but that wasn’t what mattered.

“To business, then. Let’s see it.”

Muttering more ingratiating _beg pardons_ , he cleared a space on the table, put down his precious bundle, and began deliberately pulling back the burlap. “Here you are, milady. An ancient relic from the beast of Northwind Summit, mysteriously resurrected and then boldly vanquished in this age of legends come to life. All yours, if you desire it.”

She felt her eyes tighten at the unnecessary theatrics and opened her mouth to silence him –

But then he pulled back the final fold and there it was: the largest bone she had ever seen. She reached out a single, cautious finger and ran it along its length.

“It’s…it’s warm.” She hadn’t intended to speak, but the quiet words were out before she could stop them.

“Yes,” Brand-Shei responded in equally hushed tones as he sat back down, this time more solidly. “That’s why I say it has to be real. I have no experience in such things, no one does, but that size and that heat…I can think of no other explanation. On my life, it must be from a dragon.”

She studied him. He looked just as wonder-struck as she felt, lips parted and eyes shining. She didn’t think he was lying. And if he was…as he said, _on my life._

A genuine dragon bone. As much as she wanted to carve it for display in her home (a priceless crest over the door, its undisturbed presence as much a proclamation of power as the item itself), she could think of a dozen better uses at the moment. Sell it to the Legion for their best smiths and alchemists to study, perhaps. _And if the Empire is feeling too light on gold to reward me for my efforts, doubtless the Thalmor will jump at the chance to learn more about the beasts_. _Gods know they’re never short on coin._

Maven stood and examined the object. It was oddly smooth, as though it had been burnished to a light sheen. She lifted it to test its heft, and was thrown off balance by its unexpected weight. She glared over at the elf who had seen her stumble, but his face showed no amusement. Good. Despite his angular features, she could perfectly recognize his merchant’s expression: a bit of anxiety, a bit of hunger.

She returned to her chair. _Time to dance, elf._ “Tell me, Brand-Shei – this bone was from that pair of dark elf travelers who recently arrived?”

His brow furrowed. “Why, yes.”

“And how much did you pay them for it?”

She watched the emotions war on his face. His pointy gray jaw clenched in silent indecision. _How stupid are you? Do you think you can deceive me?_

To his credit, he told the truth. “Nothing, as of yet. I said I didn’t know how much I could get for it, so we made an agreement. I’ll pay them back once I’ve found a buyer.”

“And did they say if there would be any more where that came from, next time they’re in Riften?”

“I…yes.” Another unhappy quirk of his lips, another twitch of his spindly fingers. “Perhaps. If they have any, and they’re happy with the price I got, then they promised to sell me more.”

She had already heard as much from sources in the Bee and Barb, of course, but she made a habit of never asking questions to which she didn’t already know the answer. The fool had even thought he’d been secretive, and that was before he sent word straight to Anuriel. _No subtlety at all_.

She clapped her hands once, satisfied. “Excellent. You’ve done good work, Brand-Shei. I’ll give you 500 gold for this. And next time that pair is in town, I want you to send them straight to me with their dragon bits.”

He looked up sharply at that. “The travelers themselves? Not their wares?”

 _Well then, perhaps you have a spine after all._ “What, is there some reason why you should be my middleman” _or is that my middle-lizard-elf?_ “when I could buy what I want straight from the source?”

His jaw worked again. _What’s it going to be? Fear or greed?_

“Lady Maven…” he trailed off, then uncurled his arms and set his shoulders. _Greed it is then. So transparent_. “If you don’t mind me saying so, they are my customers. They made a deal with me. Maybe…maybe it’s because I’m a dark elf, maybe not, but I think they trust me. They’ll come back to me, and I think they’d like me to be the one to deal with them. If I tell them to go sell to someone else, who knows if they’ll listen to me or not?”

She nodded at him. _Perhaps he’s not as much a simpleton as he seems._ “Go on.”

“You let me be your middlemer and I can guarantee you get the bones or scales or whatever other dragon relics they bring. And I’ll save you the work of having to keep a look out for them, since they’ve promised they’ll come to me.”

“Me first? That’s a guarantee?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Lady Maven, I think we both know that I know better than to do you wrong. But if that’s not enough…” he made a heathen little gesture over his chest “…may the Three turn away and the Four devour me if my words have been anything but true.”

Vile, dark gods for a vile, dark little creature, but it would do.

“Then we have ourselves an arrangement. 500 for this bone, and 400 for any in the future, now that you’ll hopefully be buying in bulk.”

“450,” he shot back, “and as much information as I can wring from the travelers about the dragon and how they managed to kill it.”

She raised her eyebrows at his boldness, but he was right to value information. “Agreed.”

He gaped at her. Apparently he had expected more haggling.  “Oh, I…thank you. Do we need to…shake? Sign? Swear any oaths?”

She gave him a slow smile, just to watch how he quailed. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Maven.


	4. When the Dragonborn Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When a hero shows up and meddles in everyone's business, it has consequences.
> 
> Warnings for mentions of slavery and sexual assault, addiction, and gendered slurs. Nothing too explicit, but Riften and Brand-Shei's family story should probably come as warnings of their own.

Brand-Shei’s legs might as well have been sacks of wriggling grubs as he staggered down the steps away from Maven, away from the bear trap that somehow seemed to have not swallowed him whole.

He had stood up to Maven Black-Briar. Reclamations be praised, she had intended to walk all over him, but he had insisted on getting his due. And she had assented, with no strings attached but that they repeat the transaction. Five hundred gold! Unless he was much mistaken, it was the most valuable item he had sold in his life. And if those mad dragon hunters could just keep from getting themselves eaten, he now had a buyer for their treasures.

 _Just let Niluva look down her nose at me tonight! I’m carrying more gold than she’ll see in a month!_

Perhaps it had been cowardly of him to want to escape Maven’s notice. Perhaps his hatred of drawing attention was what had kept him so damnably poor all these years.

 _She could have squished you like a bug_ , a traitorous voice whispered. _You’re only still standing because she sees a use for you._

 _Then let me be used!_ he shot back. _It’s honest wares for honest gold. I’ve nothing to be afraid of, even with her_. 

Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only person he needed to convince of that. Keerava was waiting for him by the bar, nostrils wide with agitation.

Even though she was stiff with anxiety, she still took his breath away.

If asked, he could sing the praises of the sleek curve of her nose, her regal crown of horns, the lean power in her tail…but it was of course her complexion that made him struggle not to stare. Her stone gray scales and shining red eyes, rare among Saxhleel, meant that she matched him, in a way. And that made her impossibly beautiful to him. A decade in Riften, and he still wasn’t over the sight of her.

He imagined wiping the tension from her face – how he might pick her up and swing her around, then announce that he was renting out every room in the house so she could have the night off. How they would close the doors, and bite into raw fish with no one around to curl their nose in disgust, and drink bloodwine until the world’s harsh edges seemed soft in the firelight.

But she had long ago made it clear that she had no interest in his attention. He could hardly blame her for that. If he was right, and she indeed had some Dunmer blood in her lineage, then the story of how it got there was doubtless not a pretty one. What he saw as beauty, she likely saw as abomination. He had never asked, of course; some questions were best left unanswered.

At least Talen-Jei was smitten with her. At least someone had learned not to judge.

“ _Marsh-friend_ ,” she hissed, snapping him out of his imaginings. “ _Are you most certainly knowing what you’re doing? Dealing with that swamp-adder?_ ”

“ _Just honest business,_ ” he responded, also in the language of his childhood. His mouth was the wrong shape for half the consonants, but he was intelligible enough, so long as he avoided words with too many rapid chirps. “ _I am having some unique wares, she is having the coin. It’s nothing more than that._ ”

Her inner eyelids flickered in suspicion. “ _It is-in-no-times ‘nothing more than that’ with her._ ”

“ _Please, Keerava, I am-in-no-intentions bringing trouble under your roof. I am-in-no-times doing that to you. Most certainly you know me better that that._ ” Surely she had to. She had to know he would never do anything to hurt her.

“ _She_ is _trouble, Brand-Shei! There is-in-no-times dealing with her without bringing trouble!_ ”

Her concern grated at him. For once he had something good in range of his bite, a thin thread of hope showing the way towards something like comfort, and she insisted on seeing the worst in the situation. He wanted to snap back that she and Talen-Jei were the ones that bought her merchandise and bowed to and scraped whenever she walked through their door, but he bit back the venom. He couldn’t fault them, no more than he could fault himself.

“ _I am careful, and I am not bringing harm to you, I swear it. Now, let us keep calm, or some ears are wondering what we are hissing about._ ” He shot a meaningful glance to the assortment of patrons lounging around the inn with their midday meals. She ducked her head, embarrassed, and he continued on in Cyrodiilic. “Now, about that pair of dark elf travelers who I dined with a couple days ago. Are they still here? I have some business with them.”

“They paid to keep their rooms for a week, but they’ve left town. Rumor is that the jarl has hired them for some kind of work, though I haven’t heard what. I expect they’ll be back before too long, assuming nothing goes wrong.”

“When you see them, please tell them to come see me. I have something to give them.”

She shot a worried look up the stairs.

“ _Are they...?_ ” her question trailed off in an uncertain guttural trill.

“Much appreciated, Keerava! Wouldn’t want to miss them!” he smacked his hand on the bar with false joviality.

Again, he saw that wary vertical flash of her inner lids. “No need to thank me.” She turned away and grabbed her broom, then started sweeping as if they had never exchanged a word.

Seeing no other options, he fled out the door.

So the price of his victory was Keerava’s respect. _Blessed ancestors, why can nothing ever be simple?_

Maven’s thug was lounging against the edge of his booth, sneering out at the marketplace, beefy arms crossed over his chest. When he saw Brand-Shei, he nodded and wordlessly lumbered off.

“Still alive, then,” Grelka snipped at him. He began to lock up his things without looking at her. “What, going home early?”

“Yes I am,” he responded flatly.

“What was all that about, then?” He turned his back to her. _I don’t owe her anything._ “Fine, ignore me then! Everyone else does.” 

As he wrapped the chain around the doors of his stall, it struck him that he was with _Maven_ now, and perhaps such defenses were unnecessary. The conspicuous visit, the hired thug defending his merchandise… Would any thief dare threaten him after such a display of patronage?

It was a strange thought, that he might be somehow protected. That he might be somehow _claimed._ He shook it out of his mind and finished locking the chain.

His immediate task completed, he realized that he didn’t know where he was headed next. First to the Bunkhouse, of course, to stash his gold in his various hiding-places, but after that…? He never had an afternoon _off_. He couldn’t just sit around the dreary Bunkhouse with Svana, and after Maven’s mead he didn’t trust himself to do any work. And he could hardly return to the Bee and Barb.

So he followed the buzz in his skull down to the meadery and gave Maven’s money straight back to Maven by buying a couple bottles off Ungrien. The Bosmer raised his eyebrows but didn’t dare comment. For as long as he was behind the counter, drinking “the sweet nectar of Black-Briar” was always an excellent decision.

He downed the bottles with his bared feet dangling off the docks. He never much liked drinking for the sake of drinking – his elders had reared him on too many dark stories of how wicked Dunmer had used intoxicants to control their slaves. But the reek of fish and the slosh of waves under the boats and the slosh of mead in his stomach served to blunt his sour mood. He had always liked the water.

When Azura’s setting sun made Goldenglow Estate live up to its name, and he could see the small fleet of laborers’ rowboats cutting their way back across the lake, he downed he last of the mead, put his boots back on and made his way home.

Haelga’s patrons were going to pry, that much was for certain. He wasn’t looking forward to it, but he could face the scrutiny. He could face the questions. By the ancestors, for all its discomfort, today had been _good_. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

Madesi was ready for him outside the Bunkhouse.

“Marsh-friend!” he hissed, pulling Brand-Shei halfway down the stairs to the canal. “What is going _on?_ ”

He didn’t need to ask what Madesi what he meant. “Honest business, I swear it. Nothing more. 

Madesi gave that same inner-eyelid flick as Keerava. Brand-Shei had spent hours as a child squinting at his reflection, trying to train his eyes to be so nimble. “But why with _her_?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I had something valuable to sell, and there are precious few people with money in this city. As well you know.” He could deal with Keerava’s suspicion, as deeply as it cut, but Madesi… “Please, marsh-friend, I need you to trust me. I haven’t…I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just selling my wares to those who can buy them.”

Madesi puffed out a long breath though his nose. _“One should swim with caution in murky waters_.”

“I am, Madesi. But this is _Riften_ , and we all must make choices. _Please_.”

He hated that he was groveling for the second time today – before Madesi, of all people. But then the jeweler gave a conciliatory bob of his head. “I trust you, Brand-Shei. I know you wouldn’t knowingly do anything wrong. Only, I worry for your safety. Maven Black-Briar…”

“I know, I know. But I truly believe this is for the best. I promise I’m not getting in deep with anything.” He put a hand on his friend’s arm. “Madesi, for once I have money, and it’s fairly earned. I can sleep soundly tonight, if people will just let me be. Things are good. Let me buy you dinner.”

Normally, Madesi would balk at the least whiff of charity, but tonight:

“Alright, then. Let’s eat.”

So Brand-Shei resolutely went up into the Bunkhouse, Madesi in his wake.

The nightly chatter quieted as he marched through the door and over to the communal pot. The night’s fare looked to be some bland porridge of beans and root vegetables, topped with Riften’s ubiquitous dried fish. Ignoring the eyes on his back, he scooped himself out a bowl, then finally lifted his eyes to the room. The seats were mostly filled, curse it all, so he tucked himself on the end of a bench next to Wujeeta.

This had the unfortunate effect of seating him at what amounted to the end of the Bunkhouse’s largest table. Everyone was watching him – some nakedly, some out of the corner of their eye. He dug into his bowl, daring them all to be the first to speak.

“So…Brand-Shei.” True to form, it was Tythis, Corners devour him. “Word is that you’ve found yourself a certain buyer.”

He swallowed another spoonful of slop. “Word travels fast in Riften.”

He steepled his long, gray fingers. “Is that so?”

“I was just plying my trade, Tythis. Nothing more.”

“Selling trinkets doesn’t normally get you one of Maven’s personal guards at your stand.”

“Not normally, no.” 

“And dealing with Maven. That’s not your style.”

“Not normally, no.”

“So? What does the bitch have on you?” He winked. “Don’t worry, you can tell us.”

That was too far. Brand-Shei didn’t have much, but he had his honor, and he wouldn’t let Tythis Ulen act like that was nothing. He stood with enough force to jolt back the bench, drawing an indignant cry out of Wujeeta. He slammed his hands down on the rough table. The poke of splinters only sharpened his will. “Yes, I made a sale to Maven Black-Briar today. Yes, it was substantial enough that she wanted to speak to me about it in person. But no, I haven’t involved myself in any sort of, of _shady_ transactions, so there’s nothing worth gossiping about. And I’m not entertaining any further questions about it.”

Maybe he should have let them believe he was becoming the Guild’s creature. At least then they might leave him _alone_.

“Of course,” Niluva snorted. “Nothing criminal at all. Not for our dear, pure Brand-Shei.”

“No, nothing,” he fired back. “So if anyone is curious about underhanded dealings, then I invite you to talk to our friend Niluva Hlaalu, who should be able to answer any questions you might have.”

“Daedra take you!”

“Only the good ones.”

“Peace, peace!” Madesi rushed in. “There’s no need to fight.”

“Oh, hide behind your fellow lizards,” Niluva spat, “see if I care.”

Brand-Shei bared his teeth and unleashed a territorial _hiss_ from deep in his throat. If he had a crest, it would have been flared to full volume, proclaiming the strength of his will. From Wujeeta’s cringe at his elbow, he knew he would regret the display once the mead wore off, but in the moment it felt _good_ to rise to the challenge.  To be called _lizard_ and answer in kind.

But Niluva just made a face of disgust and took a swig from her mug. It was not submission so much as dismissal. Curse her. _Curse her_.

“Anyone have anything else to add?” he glowered around the room and saw only avoidance and embarrassment. In the answering quiet, his towering anger began to curdle into the far more familiar taste of shame.

“Only one question,” Madesi’s voice at last broke through the thick silence. “If you have recently come into some gold, might you perhaps buy a round for the rest of us?”

The table burst into relieved laughter. Blessed, blessed Madesi. He sponsored a round of cheap ale, and at least for the night, they let him be.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later, Erebis and Teldryn returned. A thrill of nerves shot through him as he asked if they would accept two twenty-five for the bone. Erebis tilted his head, then nodded in satisfaction and expressed his admiration for finding a buyer so quickly.

_Ancestors and Reclamations – thank you. Thank you!_

But then, blessing upon blessing, Teldryn set his traveling pack on the ground and pulled out another bulging sack that screamed of rarity and riches.

“Then I suppose you’ve proven we can trust you with these. It’s not quite bones, so _do_ let us know if you don’t think your buyer will be interested, but they’re easier to transport and almost as valuable." 

“They’re…”

“Scales. And not just one, mind you, but as many as we could salvage and transport. Interested?”

Yes, he responded after a single glimpse at the bag’s darkly gleaming contents, his buyer was interested in these and any other dragon parts they could bring him. He sent word to Maven, and the guard from before materialized minutes later.

“The boss says ‘good work,’” the man grunted, and the pile of gold he left on Brand-Shei’s table had his coffer overflowing for the first time in _years_.

After a few days, the travelers were seen moving their gear from the Bee and Barb to the keep. Taljee-Wei reported that they were staying as the personal guests of the jarl, and earned herself a round of drinks whenever she could report back with the latest gossip on their doings. Jarl Laila had apparently taken a shine to the pair, or at least decided they were useful. The more salacious rumors claimed that the helmeted mercenary had talked his way into Laila’s bed (no, her son’s bed – no, Anuriel’s), but Brand-Shei had heard too many tales of Dunmer licentiousness from Nords and Argonians alike to pay them any mind.

But the keep wasn’t the only source of chatter about the travelers. For nearly a month, they flitted in and out of the city gates, hunting down bounties and doing odd jobs for the people of Riften. They somehow got the Guild off Shadr’s back. They left for a few days to fill a bounty on a troublesome giant, and came back with a mammoth tusk for Madesi. They – or, more properly, Erebis – noted down the far-flung needs of Mjoll and Balimund and promised to do what he could, while Teldryn muttered about “fair compensation” at his side.

As their favors piled up, they became the Bunkhouse’s favorite subject of evening debate. What was their game? Surely no one with the favor of a jarl would waste his time running errands for common folk without some ulterior motive. Were they pilgrims doing good deeds in the name of Mara? Surely not – they swore by daedra, and (as Wujeeta was quick to point out) they never made any noise about donations to the temple. Could they be imperial spies, sent to gather information on a Stormcloak-aligned city? Infiltrators hired by Jarl Laila herself to undermine Maven’s grasp on the city? That last, suggested by Ungrien, was met with open derision – everyone knew that Laila didn’t have the cunning for such a play. Whatever Erebis Adlam and Teldryn Sero were up to, their orders were not coming from the keep.

And then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone, slipping out Riften’s gates at first light. Word was that they had taken all their gear with them; they were off for good this time, not just chasing after another giant. Brand-Shei liked the pair, but he wasn’t entirely sorry to see them go. Out there were more dragons. Out there, perhaps, was the _Pride of Tel Vos._ _Guide them, Lord Azura._

“What do you think that would be like, to be able to just…go?” he wondered at Madesi as they left the marketplace that evening.

“You would know better. You’ve traveled more than I.” 

“Not like that, I haven’t. That freedom… The caravan was nothing like that. Life on the road just means you see a lot of roads. You move slowly, with all your wares, under the protection of a guard at all times. There’s no _exploring_ , not if you value your life.”

“There you have it. They’re adventurers. Their type isn’t known for valuing their lives.”

“Ah, but they can fight! Can you imagine? Having the strength to, to take down a bandit, or a bear. Or one of those dreadful draugr things! If I stepped foot in a Nord-tomb, I’d be a smear on the floor in minutes.” Madesi trilled a laugh. “Hey, now!” Brand-Shei glared at him. “It’s not like you’d last much longer!”

“I’m not disagreeing with you, marsh-friend!” he answered, still bemused. “That’s why I don’t leave the city walls! I’m a city creature from teeth to tail – not much use for fine jewelry out in the wilderness.” 

He looked down at the stagnant canal water, dark and glimmering in the low evening sun, and tried to imagine where it had been, where it would someday flow. “Don’t you ever dream of being…somewhere else? Somewhere that isn’t Riften?”

Madesi gave a thoughtful ruffle of his feathers. For a few moments, there was no sound but the creak of the causeways under their feet. “Of course I do. Dreaming is easy. Perhaps there would be a greater demand for my art in Solitude, or somewhere in Cyrodiil. It would be nice…it would be nice to be appreciated. But these wars have made times hard everywhere, so who can say? And not everywhere is as welcoming as Riften.”

Anyone who knew the least thing about Riften’s reputation would laugh at the thought of it being called “welcoming,” but Brand-Shei understood. _Curse my luck, I understand completely._

“And Riften…it’s no paradise, but everywhere has its good and its bad. I make do here. I have my work.” He clapped an arm around Brand-Shei’s shoulder. “I have some friends. And,” he shot Brand-Shei a mischievous look, “I do like living near the temple.”

Brand-Shei conspicuously rolled his eyes at the mention of Mara. Madesi shoved him away. “Stop it, you daedra-loving heathen.”

“Imperial sell-out,” he shot back reflexively.

“Necromancer.”

“Shill.”

From anyone else, the words would be grounds for a fight, but this was an old argument, entirely without venom. It felt good, that someone could tease him in friendship instead of in scorn.

He said a silent prayer of thanks to Azura for putting Madesi in his life – half in seriousness, half because he knew it would annoy the Saxhleel to be blessed by a Dunmer god.

As they approached the Bunkhouse, Madesi unexpectedly turned to the stairs down to the canal. “Good night, marsh-friend.”

“Aren’t you going to eat with us?” Madesi always spent at least an hour in the Bunkhouse before disappearing down into the Row. It was awful enough that he insisted on living down there, but Brand-Shei took comfort in the fact that he effectively made his home with the rest of them until lights-out

Madesi shook his head. “I’ve carved that tusk that Erebis got for me and am ready to start setting the pieces. Balimund has given me use of his forge in the morning, but I need to get started early. So no wagging my jaw tonight.”

“Not even for food?”

“You know how I am,” he shrugged, casual as anything. “Once I get talking, I can’t stop. Best to just steer clear of temptation tonight.”

Brand-Shei sighed. He was too familiar with that light tone, the one that insisted that all was well and would brook no objections. There was no use trying to argue with Madesi when he refused to so much as acknowledge a problem. _What’s wrong, friend? How much did you give the adventurers for that tusk?_

Madesi must have noticed his expression, because he flattened his feathers disarmingly. “Brand-Shei. You worry too much. I just need a good night’s sleep before getting to work. Stop by tomorrow and I’ll show you my new designs.”

 _But will a good night’s sleep fill your belly_? “Alright, then. But I expect to see you back tomorrow. I won’t forgive you if you leave me alone with Grelka two nights in a row.”

“But of course. Good night. I’ll say a prayer to Mara for you.”

“Daedra take you!”

Madesi bowed, then vanished into the darkness – down to Beggar’s Row, where the finest Argonian jeweler in Skyrim would fall asleep surrounded by stinking, muttering beggars.

 

* * *

 

In the ensuing weeks, the first caravan returned to Riften. Apparently K’zarya and her crew were willing to brave the war, now that there was no longer a dragon menacing the Rift. Nivenor fell hungrily on the fresh goods, and on Madesi’s new rings. Brand-Shei hired Leifnarr to build a canopy for his booth. Leifnarr bought new tools from Balimund, and Balimund bought fire salts from Elgrim. Sensing the renewed flow of coins, Brynjolf crawled out of whatever hole he called home and started hawking his latest miracle cure. Slowly, slowly, the marketplace began to hum back to life.

Brand-Shei still knew better than to be out after dark, but as long as the sun was shining, life in Riften could almost be called good. In his idle moments, he began to dream about asking Anuriel how much it would cost to buy a place of his own. 

And then he found Wujeeta facedown in a canal.

At first he thought her one of the Argonians swimming to work in the early dawn, but when he reached the other side of the bridge, he noticed that the scaly form hadn’t progressed. He looked closer: it was limply sprawled across a ramp leading out of the water, and he recognized that smooth, coppery head… 

“Corners, Corners, Corners!” he cursed as he clattered down the stairs. “Wujeeta!”

He splashed into the fetid water on the ramp, heedless of his boots, and turned her over. She was alive, praise Azura for waterbreathing, but her nose was crusted with blood, and several scales on her chin had been dislodged.

At the disturbance, she coughed and curled in on herself.

“Wujeeta, are you alright?”

“Just leave me be.”

“You’re injured! You need help!”

She cracked open a swollen eye. “Go away, Brand-Shei.”

“What in Oblivion happened to you? We should call the guards.”

“No! Call the guards and I’ll bite your nose off.”

“What? Is it…is it the skooma?”

She groaned and crawled up on to the walkway. “Fine, go ahead and judge me.”

He offered her a hand, which she refused with a snort. She wanted to be difficult? Fine – he sat down next to her. The water from her dress puddled and soaked into his trousers. “Wujeeta. I’m not going to judge.”

She wrapped her arms around herself. Brand-Shei waited for her to speak, but she just stared down at the wood beneath her. He began to wonder if he should say something when she exclaimed in a low hiss:

“I wish I could resurrect Crassius Curio, just so I could rip him apart with my bare claws.” 

Brand-Shei’s blood ran cold. Crassius Curio. The author of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_. That could only mean… “ _Wujeeta_ ,” he gasped. There were no other words.

“No, I’m fine, it’s not like that. There’s a new dealer in town, and we had a disagreement.”

He blinked.

“Something happened to the old supplier, and a new operation has moved in. Rumor is that some fool thought they could get Riften off the sugar just by interrupting the supply. Idiot. As long as we want it, they’ll find ways to get it to us. Especially now that trade is up again.” She ran a finger along her jaw and winced. “So when I met with this new one, I decided to stick around and smoke a bit of rock with him. You know, build a relationship. Well, once we’re done, he tells me what I owe – and it’s exorbitant! I couldn’t afford what he was asking, and that was just for what we had done, not for the bottles I planned to take with me.

“So we go back and forth, and then the guar-shit starts calling me a ‘lusty Argonian maid’ and suggesting that I might have another way to pay him. The bastard was planning it that way all along, I’m sure of it!”

“And he didn’t take your rejection well.”

“He made a grab for my skirt. So I kicked him in the face. Next thing I know, I’m running for my life and hiding in the canal. Because I wasn’t willing to be _lusty_ for him.”

Brand-Shei buried his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry. _Fuck_ Crassius Curio.”

“ _Lusty._ Generations of men and elves leering and calling us _lusty_ , all because that disgusting author liked that we were slaves who couldn’t say no. The next man to call me _lusty_ …I’ll kill him. I don’t care who it is, I swear I will. By Sithis, I almost hope I get the chance.” 

There was nothing to say to that, either. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I mean, I won’t tell anyone about this, not if you don’t want me to. But if you have to murder some lecher, I’ll keep quiet about that too.”

She trilled in amusement, then winced at the vibrations in her nose. “Thank you, marsh-friend. You’re a good…whatever you are.”

“I’ll take it.” He stood and extended a hand. This time she accepted. “C’mon, then. Let’s get you to the temple.” Wujeeta bristled. “I know, I know. I can’t stand them either. But they’ll heal you up, and you can be out of there before they start shaking you down for donations.”

“I suppose you’re right. I should get this taken care of before people ask too many questions. But first I have a little errand to run.” 

“An errand? What on Nirn..?

She flashed him a predatory smile and lifted her skirt just enough to reveal the edge of her boot, where a row of glistening little bottles were tucked away. “I won’t say we came out even, but I made sure to grab some compensation for my troubles on my way out the door.”

And there was the true face of Riften: ruthless, scheming, always looking out for the next trick to get ahead. Most days, he hated that about the city. But on this gray morning, it was worth it to see the look of triumph on Wujeeta’s bloodied face, cunning as the Webspinner herself.

But this was the world by the canals, where you could follow the sewage stink down to the Ratway. He needed to get back up to the light of the causeways. He needed to _change his clothes_.

_Ancestors, I’ve gone almost two hundred years without learning to smile that bloody smile. Please, help me to keep it that way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's a big old chapter, at least by my standards. Thanks for your patience!
> 
> So. The Lusty Argonian Maid. It's fun as a goofy inside joke for fans, but in-universe, it's a pretty disturbing work. A pervy Hlaalu courtier writes a play about taking advantage of an Argonian "maid" and it becomes the continent's erotica of choice for centuries? Mmmhmm.


	5. Waterbreathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I spy with my little eye: a main questline! Today’s warnings brought to you by brief suicidal imaginings and mild body dysphoria. Once again, nothing too intense.

The adventurers returned a season later, when the aspens were lit up like fire and the first hint of morning frost had begun to thin out the moss on the edges of the canals. Brand-Shei’s breath caught when Erebis’s eyes met his, but the mage just shook his head. Brand-Shei bit back a wave of disappointment. _Patience, patience_. They unloaded their spoils on Brand-Shei (and Madesi, and Grelka), all the while asking questions about the Ratway.

“It’s not a place for good folk,” he warned as they thunked down a bulging sack of dragon bones – his chest swelled at the bounty – and again bought up his entire supply of ash yams. “Whatever business you think you have down there, it’s not worth it. The riff-raff in those tunnels would slit your throat for a crust of bread.”

“A sewer full of starving beggars,” Teldryn drawled, gloved hand drifting to the hilt of his sword. “I’m _so scared._ ”

“Your life, brother. Do what you must, but I can’t help you.”

So down into the Ratway they went, the air around them crackling with magicka in anticipation of a fight. Brand-Shei muttered a prayer to keep the eyes of the Corners away from their venture.

A few hours later, they burst up from the canal and out the city gates like they were fleeing Oblivion itself, now, bizarrely, with a ragged old man on their heels. This prompted some smug chuckles in the marketplace – they had warned the fools – but then a bloodied pair of godsforsaken _Thalmor_ popped out behind them and threw the city guards into a panic. The snarling Altmer were sprinting out the gates as well before the captain of the guard could take any control of the situation.

The city immediately went into lockdown. How long had the elves been lurking in the Ratway? What had they been looking for? By the Nine, Riften had a statue of Talos in broad view! There was no doubt they would soon return; Nura Snow-Shod went into hiding, and was quickly replaced by a bellowing Nord-man who kept noisy vigil at the statue through the lengthening night.

Sure enough, it was only a few days before a fresh wave of Dominion representatives appeared back at the gates. The cry went up from the walls: “Justiciars!”

Brand-Shei had been in the middle of pitching a set of Blacklight-made ceramic plates to a seamstress, but at the shouts of _Thalmor_ , she clutched her amulet of Talos and took off at a run, along with half the Nords in the marketplace. Off to hide in their homes, Brand-Shei guessed.

He also sprung into action, scrambling to lock up his stand. Whatever was coming next… He listened for the crack of Thalmor lightning or the echoes of Nordic battlecries, but heard only shouting and the creaking of causeways under the sudden tide of movement.

And then, the Thalmor were entering the central market, their enchanted black hoods shimmering like oil slicks over the heads of lesser mortals. What was left of the market-goers froze and stared. Silence, a smattering of jeers, no screaming – that was a good sign. As they sneered their way through the masses like slaughterfish through a school of minnows, Brand-Shei caught sight of their full number. There were only seven of them, ancestors and Reclamations be praised – merely a force of justiciars, not an army here to wreak vengeance on the city.

(Absurd, to worry that they could conjure up a conquering army in a matter of days this deep into Stormcloak territory. Of course it was just a gang of inquisitors. But even here, on the far edge of Skyrim, everyone had heard _stories_ from the Great War, and could be forgiven for letting their imaginations run riot these past anxious days.)

Escorted by tense Riften guards, they marched up to the keep. They doubtless would have burst straight through the heavy oak doors, but a young watchwoman had dashed ahead of them and alerted the jarl to their arrival. She was ready for them at the top of the steps, flanked by her court and an array of guards. A crowd had already begun to gather at the scene.

Brand-Shei warily followed them, along with most of the beings remaining in the marketplace, to the steps of the keep. It was against his better judgment, but he wanted to see the drama unfold – and he was aching to know something of what had happened to Erebis and Teldryn. He climbed up on a barrel not far from Madesi’s stall where he could keep half an eye on his own table. Madesi was chiding a pair of children who had shimmied up onto his roof for a better view, and he cupped a hand around one sharp ear to hear over the commotion.

“…wanted fugitives of the Aldmeri Dominion. We will be conducting a full investigation into their affairs in Riften.” Brand-Shei couldn’t see the commander’s face, but the imperiousness in his voice could put Niluva to shame, all crisp consonants and arching Summerset vowels.

“We thank you for your concern, but we can handle matters from here,” Laila’s reply cut strong and clear across the square. She had positioned herself so that the toweringly tall Thalmor had to stand two steps below her and look her in the face. Clever, to take away their power to loom over her. “Tell us what information you are hoping to gather and, if they have in any way wronged our people, we will pass along whatever the guard can find."

“The suggestion is entirely unacceptable. We will conduct our own inquiry.”

“Then tell us what crime has been committed! Surely they were not devotees of Talos!”

“That is privileged information.”

“Then I am sorry, but we cannot assist you.”

“Stand aside, woman, or you will be guilty of impeding an official Thalmor investigation! Now, Velenil, Endorien,” he nodded to his nearest companions and moved to force his way up the remaining steps. Unmid Snow-Shod barked out something, and the guards crossed their spears in front of the jarl. Anuriel gave a little cry from behind her, but she did not flinch.

Brand-Shei had never had much respect for Laila Law-Giver. It was hard to give her much weight when Riften’s currents of power so clearly flowed from other headwaters. But in this moment, standing strong and proud before a pack of black-robed justiciars, he had to admit that she was _magnificent_.

“The terms of the White-Gold Concordat –“

“I think you will find that Riften is far from the Imperial City, and farther still from the Summerset Isles.”

Madesi chirped in shock. The Thalmor extended his ramrod-straight spine even taller. “If you think that your loyalty to Ulfric Stormcloak exempts you from the terms of the treaty, it does not. You will obey, or suffer the consequences.”

“You may come inside and explain to me why you were sneaking around my sewers unannounced, or you may leave this city. We will aid you, insomuch as it does not violate the rights of our citizens, but we _will not bow._ ”

A smattering of cheers broke out at that, blocking out the justiciar’s response. A group of guards started to reorganize themselves, but the Thalmor turned and glowered back down the steps before they could form a proper escort. They made back for the gate, the crowd melting away before their enraged golden faces.

Brand-Shei felt the warmth of an unfamiliar pride in his city. Jarl Laila had stood up to justiciars and prevailed. Apparently he was not the only one with the thought; cheers of “Laila! Laila!” erupted across the crowd. The jarl flashed a small, triumphant smile then motioned her court back into the keep.

He clambered down from the barrel (ancestors, he wasn’t as young as he used to be) and headed back to his stand. As his excitement ebbed, the awful truth that had been gnawing at him for the past days returned with full force: Erebis and Teldryn were on the run from the Aldmeri Dominion. It sounded like they were still alive and free, but if the Thalmor were after them, they wouldn’t stay that way for very long. If they had a lick of sense, they would cross the border to Morrowind and never look back.

So much for a steady supply of dragon parts that could lay the foundations of a better life. So much for living through their stories of their fantastic adventures. So much for praying to Azura that they would help him uncover his past. Even if they caught wind of the jarl’s stand against the Thalmor, they would have to be beyond foolish to return, now that the Dominion was on the prowl in the Rift.

They were gone. That was the only possible conclusion. They were gone, and with them, all the hope that had bubbled within him these past months.

Stupid, _stupid_ that he had let himself dream of anything more. Stupid that he had pinned any hope on the efforts of others. Stupid that he thought he might grow by the light of someone else’s greatness.

No one could help him. Only he could have a hand in changing his fate, and he had failed at that too many times. Two hundred years old, give or take, and he would only ever be a pathetic nothing of a peddler. He was weak, _useless_.

No one in the ebullient crowd knew or cared about his failure, and yet he could feel his neck burning with embarrassment. He wished he could disappear into the stinking canal – just vanish into the sluggish water and never surface. It wouldn’t make a lick of difference in the world.

He slumped against the rough wood of his stand, trying to steel himself to open up for trade. People were relieved, and happy people opened their purses. He couldn’t afford to wallow, now that this little stand was once again his entire world. The influx of gold from the final sack of bones would last him a while, but it would dry up because it _always_ dried up, and then things would be the same as before. No, worse, because he had tasted the possibility of something different.

 _Ask for anything more, and you are only asking for disappointment._ Perhaps his mother had been right.

Back to business. Back to making do.

Swallowing the sour churn of self-loathing, he plastered a smile on his face and threw open the doors of his stand.

“If you think the Thalmor hate Talos, just think how they feel about the Good Daedra! Support freedom of worship, support trade with Morrowind! Yes to gray is no to gold!”

 

* * *

 

Brand-Shei tied back his hair in a cord, preparing to wash off the day’s dust in the lake. Beside him, Madesi shucked off his clothes unselfconsciously and stretched his arms high above his head. The sun shimmered on his green figure. It was only a matter of custom that Argonians bothered with attire at all; in the most traditional pockets of Black Marsh, Saxhleel only covered themselves when they were armoring themselves for battle. Their reproductive organs tucked discretely into their own bodies, so nakedness was for them as modest as any attire.

In comparison to Argonian bodies, the forms of men and mer were wanton – all curves and bulges and sensitive protrusions that screamed their readiness to copulate. Argonian folk wisdom held that that was why humans and elves were so hungry for Saxhleel bodies: they were envious of their natural dignity and lusted for its defilement. They couldn’t stand the thought that not all beings were as overt as them.

Madesi whistled a warning then dove into the water, barely making a splash. Brand-Shei’s breath caught as he watched his tail disappear beneath Lake Honrich’s morning-bright surface. Hunched on the edge of the dock, he began to hastily shuck off his own clothes. He had no such gods-given modesty. Tythis would smirk at his shyness if he were here, but even now, the indiscretion of his form felt _wrong_ , like it was announcing things that should be secret and sacred and smooth.

From a young age, Brand-Shei had known himself to be exposed, _dirty_. His sleekly chaste siblings could run and play as bare as the day they were reborn, but if he tried the same, adults hissed in displeasure and averted their eyes. And so he had quickly learned: his unruly, brazen body was only tolerated when it was hidden away.

Once he was undressed, he slipped off the dock and into the lake’s embrace. The water was chilly enough to knock the air from his lungs, and yet it felt good. Swimming always did. For reasons that he would never understand, the rules were different in the water. All bodies magically became acceptable so long as they were surrounded by fluid.

Madesi’s head popped up several feet away. He cleared his nostrils, then dove back down. Brand-Shei checked that his amulet was around his neck – of course it was there, it was always there – plunged his head beneath the surface, and breathed in deeply.

There were many times as a child that he had nearly died. His skin was soft, and Black Marsh was harsh, and he was very often sick. Venomous bugs bit him, he scraped himself on toxic thorns, and when he finally was permitted to taste the Hist, he spent the next month bedridden and screaming. But the incident that stood out clearest in his mind was when he had nearly drowned himself.

It had been a stupid, adolescent game. A strong, daring boy teased him in front of a girl that he liked, and he had responded by trying to prove that he could dive as deeply as everyone else. So the boy threw a colored rock into the village’s deepest pond, and he searched after it in the murky depths, ignoring the burning in his lungs until everything went dark and the other boy pulled him half-dead from the water.

His parents had screamed out their fear and rage, and ordered him to stay land-bound until he had learned some sense. The miserable, trapped days that followed were some of the most humiliating days in his humiliating life. But then, a few weeks later, they had presented him with a green stone on a cord, enchanted with a spell of waterbreathing. They had come from generations enslaved by Dunmer wizards and were deeply suspicious of magic – yet they saw that he needed this, and somehow procured it for him.

From that moment on, he was as amphibious as any other child in the village, no longer splashing in the shallows but exploring all the hidden roots of the reeds, a magical bubble of air surrounding his mouth and nostrils. The smallest hatching could swim circles around him, but it hardly mattered, because the water was now his home, just as it was for everyone else. Under the water was peace, belonging. Troubles couldn’t find you, so long as you waited in the quiet world beneath the surface.

Floating here in Lake Honrich, he could almost drift away from the bitterness of the day. If only he could swim away from all this, live as free and feral as a salmon in the depths of the lake. Away from Maven and Haelga and unreliable caravans and worthless dreams, he could become a creature of pure instinct…until winter or slaughterfish or starvation ended it all.

Useless. He couldn’t even survive as a stupid fish.

Madesi materialized through the gloom. He gestured and Brand-Shei followed him away from the docks.

Light from the ripples above danced on Madesi’s form. He twirled and writhed, untethered as a bird in the sky, his twisting course allowing Brand-Shei to keep pace.

Out in the depths of the lake, he darted left and snatched a salmon in his mouth. He rose to the surface and Brand-Shei trailed after him. The fish was wriggling deliciously between his teeth. Madesi grabbed it in his claws, tore it in two, and handed Brand-Shei the tail end. Brand-Shei glanced over his shoulder towards shore; they would be fined if they were caught fishing without a license, but no one was watching. Guards were sparser than normal; he guessed they were in their barracks boasting of how they had stood up to the Dominion and lived to tell the tale. Gratefully, he accepted the gift and bit into the tender scales. Madesi flared his feathers, pleased, then crunched off the fish’s head and swallowed it in a single gulp. “Delicious.”

“It is. What’s the occasion? Celebrating our valiant jarl’s stand?”

“Brand-Shei…I am sorry about those adventurers. I know they were important to you.”

He sighed. “It’s nothing. It was good while it lasted, but when do good things ever last?”

Madesi’s feathers drooped. “All things pass, good and bad. But if you are feeling sad…”

“What?”

“I won’t push you, marsh-friend, but if you ever want to come to the temple of Mara with me, praying to her really does make me feel better.”

Brand-Shei shook his head. “I’ll never understand you. You’re so proud of your heritage, of your name, and yet you worship an Imperial Divine.”

“And you keep _your_ name, while praying to your Reclamations. It’s never just one or the other. I’m proud of where I come from, but I’m also proud of where I am.”

“Proud of Riften? Today’s excitement aside…”

“Yes. Proud of my work. Proud of making a living. Proud to help a temple that cares for the poor, not just the mighty. It’s not glamorous, but it does make life a bit better.”

“Proud to live with beggars?” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “You deserve so much more than that!”

Madesi tilted his head. “You know that sleeping in the Row is my choice, don’t you? It’s not that I have piles of extra money, but I could afford the Bunkhouse if I wanted to.”

“Yes, of course, but Grelka…”

He chirped in amusement. “And it’s not just that I prefer Edda to half the people in the Bunkhouse. Brand-Shei, Haelga is not a good woman, you know that. Every coin that I don’t give her, I’m free to give to the temple. And yes, the priests keep some of the money, because they deserve to make a living too. But all the rest goes straight to people who need it. Orphans, the sick, the poor. Choosing a place where I can sleep for free…yes, it’s a sacrifice, but it’s worth it because it means that I’m helping others. It makes life a little bit more worth living, that way. Plus,” he grinned, “just imagine Haelga’s reaction if I tried to bring a fresh grub-pillow into her building."

Brand-Shei groaned at the thought. He had never understood the appeal of sleeping on a sack of live insects, but his family had sworn that it was soothing against their scales.

So Madesi slept with beggars because it allowed him to help others. If he weren’t busy treading water, Brand-Shei would have embraced him. “You’re far too good for this city.”

“This city is only as good as we make it.”

Brand-Shei looked back towards the shore. The roofline was a dark mass against the setting sun. Whatever light Erebis and Teldryn had brought to Riften, it wasn’t theirs alone. There was still Jarl Laila, trying to stand for something true against all odds. There was still Mjoll and Bersi, Balimund with his forge and Marise with her cart, Wujeeta forever trying to get clean. There was still Madesi.

Perhaps there was something worth fighting for here after all. Perhaps that could be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...have lots of feelings about Brand-Shei's feelings about his body.
> 
> Stupid tumblr locked me out of my stupid old accounts, so I'm starting over. brandshei.tumblr.com. Let's be friends.


	6. Mara

The bells of the Temple of Mara were ringing in full force when the doors creaked open, revealing Maramal and Dinya Balu in full priestly regalia. They raised their palms and shot up a fountain of magical golden light into the air. It was the color of Restoration - of gentleness and wholeness and new beginnings. They stepped aside, and a singing wedding party stepped out into the sparkling shower.

A plump Nord woman and a tiny Bosmer descended the steps together, resplendent in matching red cloaks with a white fox-fur trim. At the bottom of the stairs, the Nord picked up her new wife and spun her around. The little elf squealed in surprise, then melted into the Nord’s embrace. She grabbed her face, brown hands on creamy skin, and kissed her deeply. The Nordic family standing behind them on the steps whooped their approval, making more than one of their fresh-minted Bosmer in-laws jump in surprise.

Brand-Shei gave a final look at his display. He had stuffed his more prosaic wares under the stall and replaced them with an arrangement of trinkets that he hoped would catch partygoers’ eyes. Brightly colored ribbons, hanging from the ceiling on a ring, fluttering merrily in the crisp autumn breeze. A row of soft slippers, a row of knit gloves. A box of knives and forks, recently polished to a gleam – not splendid enough to make a wedding gift, but perfectly suited for eating the fragrant meats that a pack of vendors were now preparing on their braziers all around the marketplace. The decorative little jars of Goldenglow honey that visitors to Riften favored as souvenirs. And, of course, all the alcohol in his stock, the colorful array of bottles flanking the other goods on both sides.

Satisfied with the arrangement, he fussed with his scarf – red, like the banners in the temple. No harm in playing along for the celebration. Weddings were good for business, especially when they were for a couple wealthy enough to travel to the temple, instead of just consecrating their union at a local shrine.

Tipsy outsiders were also good for thieves. The guard’s presence in the central market was always heavy, but they had doubled their patrols for the day and were nudging at anyone who looked to be loitering with the butts of their spears. Of course, some pickpockets would only take that as a challenge, and Brand-Shei was sure that a few of the guests would find things “missing” from their purses by the time the night was out. But common wisdom held that the Guild didn’t strike wedding visitors too hard; light skimming was profitable, but aggressive thievery risked scaring off future happy couples.

“Going into battle? Why take a chance? Buy armor from Grelka!” his neighbor barked at the approaching wedding party.

He suppressed a snort. The woman really needed to learn to change up her pitch. He would try to give her some tips, but, well… She must’ve made a better sellsword than a merchant, until a mace had left her right hand a tangled mess.

He beamed out at the crowd. “Celebrate love with a gift for your sweetheart! Honey! Slippers! Fine ceramics!”

The Nord-bride approached his stall. She was lovely in her joy – all pink cheeks and flaxen hair and sky-blue eyes.

“Congratulations, milady,” he bowed.

“Blessings of Mara be upon you!” She handed him a piece of paper and a little packet. “Please, pray to Our Mother for our happiness.”

“With pleasure, milady.”

She moved on to the next booth and he examined what she had given him: a small paper bag of candied nuts and a pamplet: “Rejoice, Reader, for Mara’s Light Shines Upon YOU!” He let the pamphlet flutter to the ground without reading the rest – but he wouldn’t say no to the nuts. He popped one in his mouth. The sweetness exploded on his tongue.

Wedding days were always good days.

“Delicious Goldenglow honey! Fine wool gloves to keep your beloved’s hands warm!”

A bright-eyed little Bosmer girl looked shyly at him from behind her mother’s skirt. Brand-Shei winked and wiggled his fingers at her.

She peeled away from her parents and wandered over to peer up at his cart, taking in the amber shine of honey, the dangling plume of ribbons. He leaned down. “Hello there, little one. Are you enjoying the party?”

She nodded wordlessly.

Impulsively, he ran his fingers through the ribbons. “Would you like a present?” Again, she nodded, this time more emphatically. He untied one from the ring – green, to match her eyes – and wrapped it around the base of her braid.   He crouched down to her level. “Beautiful. Now go on back to your parents.”

“I suppose you expect me to pay for that,” her father sighed as he came to collect her. From his fine clothes, he certainly could, but…

“Not at all, sera. The pleasure is all mine. It’s always a blessing to see an elf-child.”

“Well, I won’t argue with you.” He frowned and looked at the ribbons. “Though I suppose I’ll buy another, in the same color. She loves it when she and her mother match.”

_Got you._

In the end, the Bosmer walked away with the ribbon, a set of glass bangles, a scarf, and two bottles of flin. Brand-Shei crunched on another nut, immensely pleased.

The visitors filtered back and forth between the market and the Bee and Barb. As sundown approached, a gaggle of servants appeared to hang lanterns around the square. A group of musicians broke out their fiddles and flutes and drums, and soon dancers were spinning around the center of the market, the vibrations of their steps carrying out across the wooden boards. Brand-Shei chewed a greasy skewer of rabbit meat (at least, the vendor had sworn it was rabbit) and watched the brides twirl each other around and around.

It was well after dark when the band shouted that they were moving inside. He sold his last bottle of ale to a thirsty reveler and started for the Bunkhouse. On a normal night, he wouldn’t dream of being out so late, but the streets were bustling and well lit.

The Tower was shining bright in the sky. The gods had blessed the couple with a beautiful wedding night.

As he walked over a bridge, he passed a man covered in a dark cloak. Brand-Shei assumed that he was just a drunk visitor pissing into the canal, but then he turned and fixed his hood right at his face.

“Well if it isn’t just the person I was hoping to see.”

 _Thief!_ In an instant, Brand-Shei’s dagger was in his one hand, a paltry palmful of flames in his other. “I don’t have any valuables on me. Just let me go home and I won’t say a thing.”

“Ho! Easy there, friend!” he said in a low, overfriendly whisper, spreading his empty hands. “I’m not looking to cause you trouble. I’ve just heard that you’re an enterprising sort of elf and thought you might be interested in a business proposal.”

His neck prickled. He had never seen this man in his life. “And you are?”

“Why, I’m your next big break. The way I’ve heard tell, those Thalmor might’ve cost you a certain profitable contact, and you might be looking for some more opportunities.”

He didn’t like the way this way going, but he could hardly run off without knowing what was on offer. “You might’ve heard right,” he whispered back cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”

“Come here and talk.” He beckoned Brand-Shei to come join him. He braced his forearms on the rail so his face was out over the canal, away from the streetlamps. Brand-Shei could only see his pale beard and the hint of a nose. Cautiously, Brand-Shei mirrored his stance. The pose was casual, intimate, like they were two old friends getting a breath of fresh air. His instincts were screaming to flee, but he had to know what the man wanted with _him_ , of all people. “You have contact with the Khajiit, aye?”

He pondered his words. “I traveled with a caravan for some time, yes, and they set me up with a trader who brings in goods from Morrowind. That’s where I get my imports. K’zarya is an old friend.”

“Good, good. That’s what I like to hear. Nothing like working with old friends.” His warm, oily tone made Brand-Shei’s ears tingle.

“And?”

“This K’zarya…have you ever considered approaching her about some _additional_ wares?”

No, not good at all. “Speak plainly, sera.”

“Down to business, then. I appreciate that, so I’ll make this short and sweet. Demand for a certain substance is booming, and not just in Riften. Lots of people looking for an escape from all that’s going on in the world. And our friendly local distributer can’t keep up with the demand.”

“So you’re looking for new sources.” And they thought he might be their solution. Was his reputation so tarnished by mere association with the Black-Briars that fetching _drug-dealers_ now thought he would happily join their trade?

“Precisely, friend elf. So if you could talk to your fine feline associates about adding a little something extra to her deliveries…”

He pulled back from the railing. “No. I’m not interested. I’ve never touched…this _substance_ , and have no intention of starting now.”

“So much the better!” he answered soothingly. “Then there’s no need to worry about you skimming off the merchandise.”

Brand-Shei paused. He had no interest in becoming a skooma smuggler, but if he could learn something of the web that thought it could entrap him… _Mephala cloak me_. He nodded to continue.

“That’s a good elf! I happen to agree with you – I think it’s vile stuff myself, but we give the people what they want. Not my problem, not my place to judge. But that’s the beauty of it all! You just need to receive some nice, sealed boxes from Morrowind, then make sure they end up in the right hands. It’s just facilitating a delivery, nice and easy like.” Somewhere inside his cloak, he jingled a coin purse. “We’d be sure to make worth your while.”

Brand-Shei leaned back down on the bridge and rubbed his chin. “That’s…quite the offer.” _I’m pondering. Watch me ponder._

He should have just said no. He should’ve thanked the man and then walked away and forgotten all about it. Skooma was an evil thing, and he wanted nothing to do with the stuff.

But he thought of Wujeeta, harassed and mauled by an unpredictable new dealer. He thought of Niluva, poor and bitter and incapable of setting herself free. He thought of old Morrowind’s slaves, kept docile and trapped by chains of addiction. He thought of K’Zarya and all the other caravans, banished from Skyrim’s cities because it was easier for the Nords to blame foreigners for their troubles than to face the ugliness of their own cravings.

And he realized that he was being given a chance to do something about it. _Madesi was right. This city is only as good as we make it_.

 _If I do this, I will do something that matters_.

He worked his jaw and steeled himself to keep his voice calm. “You know I can’t make any promises right now. This is a…new direction, and I don’t know if the caravan will accept. I need to talk to them.”

“But of course.”

“Barring any trouble, they should come back through Riften within the week. I’ll meet them outside and ask them a few questions, nice and quiet, when I pick up my shipment. Meet me on the docks outside the fishery next Morndas at sundown and I’ll tell you what they say.”

The man extended a dark-gloved hand. Brand-Shei took it. “Pleasure doing business with you, friend. Here’s to this being a long and profitable relationship for us both.”

When he pulled his hand back, he left Brand-Shei holding a little cloth satchel. He held it up quizzically.

“Moon sugar. Just a little sample. Give it to the cats with my compliments. As a sign of good faith.”

“Let’s hope they appreciate,” he said brightly, pocketing the packet. _No going back now_.

 

* * *

 

The next Morndas, he sent the guards in his place.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, sweet lil chapter. Have some cute interracial lesbians and a cute lil elf-baby before shit starts to go off the rails.
> 
> I'm having fun diving back into tumblr! If you care to see my rambling about making sense of lore, let's be friends. brand-shei.tumblr.com


	7. Brynjolf

Living over canals meant waging an unending battle against moss.

It thinned out, some, during the colder months, but Riften rarely experienced a proper freeze that could kill the stuff off entirely. It was always encroaching, always threatening to claim whatever surface was left untended. It sprang up in the joints of staircases, climbed up doorposts, and crawled out from under bridges. Untreated, it left the wood slick, then soft, then moldering.

It was a slow day, and that meant that Brand-Shei was busily scrubbing the scum from the base of his stall.

Grelod regularly sent out packs of orphans with brushes and buckets of diluted vinegar to clean off people’s doorsteps and then extort money for the favor, but the children had long since learned that the vendors in the marketplace tipped poorly, and preferred to fish in more bountiful waters.

Brand-Shei didn’t mind the work. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, it was good to be off his feet. There was something mindlessly soothing about the scrape of bristles that revealed good, clean wood underneath. The sun was warm on his light autumn cloak, a fresh breeze blowing in from off the lake.

The bristles caught on a stubborn patch of lichen that had been blooming under the outer layer of moss. A few hard passes of the brush did nothing. He could keep worrying at the growth, or…

He laid his hand over the patch and sent a pulse of flames into it. He had no talent for spellwork, but any Dunmer could at least summon up a handful of fire. He felt the lichen dry, then heat, then start to crumble at the edges. Quickly, he dunked his brush in the bucket and scrubbed the smoking remainder off the wood.

“You catch anything on fire, I’ll run you out of town myself.”

He started, then twisted around to see a helmeted guard. He hadn’t thought anyone had been watching him.

_Can’t you see the bucket of water, can’t you see that the wood is wet, can’t you see –_

“Hello there, Borsnar,” he responded mildly. “If I were stupid enough to burn down my own booth, I’d right deserve it.”

Borsnar grunted. “Well watch the magic.”

“Yes, sera.” He suppressed an eye roll and went back to scrubbing – pulling the brush from the bucket with a larger _splash_ than was strictly necessary. Nothing good came of picking a fight with a guard, especially one of the market’s regular patrol. “How’s little Lilja doing?” _Make nice, now. Just let me be._

“Aye, larger every day,” the guard’s voice warmed. “Brynja says she’ll be walking any time, now.”

“Still bald as an egg?”

“Oh-ho! To her mother’s dismay! But the hair will come in soon, and then she’ll be sighing over how much she misses her baby’s smooth head. It was the same with Bjarni.”

“He’s what, now? Three?”

“Four! And already playing at swords with any stick he can find! He’ll be quite the fighter someday, mark my words.”

“Like his father then,” the flattery rolled easily off his tongue. He should have left it there, but he couldn’t help asking: “…So, how fares Riften?”

“It’s been a quiet few days, just one break-in reported.”

“Thank the gods for that. Maybe honest folk are finally taking this city back for themselves.”

“But it’s even better than that,” he leaned in, arm against the post of Brand-Shei’s stall. “Here’s the news if you want it. Big skooma bust, just two nights ago. We caught a dealer, and he led us straight to his stash. Thousands of septims worth of that poison. That’ll take a nick out of their business, it will.”

“That’s amazing!” Brand-Shei basked in a wave of satisfaction. _I did that._ “The streets are Riften are safer tonight thanks to the guard.”

“Aye, we’ve got those worthless lowlifes on the run.”

“Talos bless you for your work.”

“And your gods bless you too, elf. Stay sharp, now.”

With that, the guard left him to his business, praise Azura. Brand-Shei glanced over his shoulder to check that his back was turned then roasted another patch of lichen. _Borsnar. Such a Nord._

He worked his way up the cart, to the joints of his new canopy, where the faintest patches of green fuzz where starting to sprout. The fabric was a sturdy Ashlander tent-weave in brilliant yellows and red, but it was made for desert climates, and was showing a hint of mildew on the edges. It would need to be washed, wax rubbed into the seams. He stretched to pull it from its posts and bundled it under his arm.

If he gave it to the Argonian washwomen on the docks now, then they should have it cleaned by morning. He had other errands to do before dark; he could afford to lock up early today.

He reached into his purse for his strongbox key –

And every last septim was gone.

The canopy fell from his arm and thumped to the ground. Frantic, he unbuckled the little pouch from his belt and opened it on his table. His money, his hair ties, his keys – gone. _How_? The purse had been fastened, and covered by his cloak besides. He needed to find a locksmith, fast, and he’d be charged extra for the emergency job. Corners, they’d taken his _keys_ …

In their place was a folded scrap of paper. He opened it with shaking hands.

 

_You just had to call the guards…_

_I give you an opportunity because_

_I thought you had some business sense,_

_and this is how you thank me?_

_How disappointing._

- _M_

 

Below the lines of beautiful penmanship was a little stamp of a bee on a flower.

Maven. He had betrayed Maven.

The skooma smuggler had been Maven’s man.

By the ancestors and the Three. He’d turned in the skooma smuggler that Maven had sent to him. She’d had people killed for less.

Numbly, he doubled over onto his stall.

He was dead. He was dead, he needed to leave Riften, he needed to flee, he needed to –

He jumped up and spun around, suddenly realizing that his hunched back was exposed to a dagger, to an arrow, to –

Surely he was being absurd. _I’m not worth a Dark Brotherhood contract, am I? I can’t be. I’m nobody. I can’t be worth that._

_But what does she need the Brotherhood for, when she could hire some local thug to slit my throat and dump my body in the lake?_

He needed to run. He needed to find a locksmith. He needed to crawl to the Black-Briar residence and beg for forgiveness. He needed to –

 _Breathe, Brand-Shei_. _Keep your wits about you in dark waters._

He looked over the note again. She was angry, but he was still alive. If they could empty his purse, they could’ve just as easily slipped a knife between his ribs. Perhaps she just wanted to watch him squirm first, but at least for now, she wanted him alive.

K’Zarya’s caravan was perhaps three days’ journey away. If he hired a cart and left tonight, he could catch them in Whiterun – go back to life on the road as their go-between in the cities.

But that would mean abandoning everything he had worked to build here. If Maven truly wanted him dead, then he had no doubt that he wouldn’t make it out the gates if he was caught filling so much as a single pack. It would mean starting over. It would mean giving up on…

His stall. His customers. What little respect he had managed to scrape together after a decade in the Rift. His relationships – Madesi and Wujeeta and Marlise, and even godsdamned Grelka. He couldn’t leave those like they were nothing.

He couldn’t slip away in the night like he had something to hide.

_Spare me not from the test, but strengthen me for the time of my proving._

But he didn’t feel strong. He felt trapped – like a fish dancing on a hook, waiting to see if it had been caught for sport or if it was about to become a meal.

Helpless. Always helpless. And now all the more so, just because he’d tried to grasp even the smallest modicum of control.

He could denounce her, now. If his fate was sealed, he could try to take her down with him. Bring the note to the Jarl, tell her that Maven was making moves on the skooma trade.

But as the thought crossed his mind, he immediately dismissed it. She was too powerful, too subtle to be hurt by such a play. She’d escape unscathed, and then – he shuddered – she’d _really_ make sure he suffered.

Helpless.

The wheels were in motion now. He could only ride them. Trying to stand in their way would only ensure that he would be crushed. _Please, Lord Azura. Not now. Not by her hand_.

He needed new locks. Curse her, these might be his final hours, and he was going to spend them haggling for new locks.

 

* * *

 

That night, in his bed, he waited – either for the Oblivion of sleep, or the slice of an assassin’s blade. The darkness, normally a welcome embrace at the end of a long day, was alive with ominous shadows. Every creak and snore spelled doom. He gripped his carving from temple of Azura in Blacklight until the pain from its corners faded into pulsing numbness.

When it became clear that sleep was not coming, he opened the drawer containing his Waiting Door and sat before it on the ground.

He stared into the black hole of the archway, and tried to convince himself that he was not afraid to cross over.

 

* * *

 

The morning, when it finally came, was deliriously bright. He downed a cup of Svana’s too-weak tea, then stumbled off to work, blinking through the thick film of unreality that clung to the world.

The creak of carts was too sharp, the call of water birds too unnaturally shrill. The shimmering water below had the quality of the dreams that had eluded him. The people around him – were they truly beginning their days unafraid that it would be their last? Unafraid of the spider lurking at the center of Riften’s web, unaware of how many sticky threads could catch their feet?

_Is this what it feels like to have one foot in the grave, that the world of the living feels too real?_

He staggered through his day, listlessly handing over goods and noting down special orders. Nivenor _wanted_. Dinya _wanted_. Would he ever have a chance to deliver their wares?

The terror coursed through him in fits and starts that left him hollow. _Perhaps yesterday’s theft and threat were punishment enough. No, perhaps she’s going to gut me like a fish, deny me a proper burial and leave me to rot. No, I survived the night, surely I’m in the clear, surely –_ if he could just get _control_ of himself…

And then he saw her and her guards from across the bridge.

His first instinct was to run. They were coming for him, _coming_ … But if he could see them, they wanted to be seen. Her eyes were everywhere. Fleeing wouldn’t do any good.

 _“_ Azura, Boethia, Mephala,” he closed his eyes and prayed beneath his breath. “Strengthen me for the trial. Strengthen me for the trial.” He clutched at his table.

This time, she made no game of her intentions. She stalked straight for him, face as cold and hard as ice.

She stopped before him. His fingers fluttered, unmoored, then clenched again. “Lady Maven,” he said, and waited, unbreathing.

"I don't like being made a fool of, Brand-Shei. Not one bit." She was furious. He was doomed.

"Maven, pleasse. I didn't know it was your man. Had I known, I would have looked the other way, I ss-sswear." Ancestors forgive him, it was true. If he had even suspected, if he had just _thought_ for a minute, curse him, curse his luck…

"Turning him in to the guards? Have you joined Mjoll as official peacekeepers of Riften? You cost me a lot of coin."

"Maven, I...” He had nothing to give her but his weakness. “Please, don't hurt me."

She twisted her mouth and pondered him. His blood pounded in his ears. “Next time, when I ask something of you, you’re going to do it. Without hesitation.”

She wasn’t going to kill him? She wanted to…to use him for something else.

His terror shattered like spring ice, but beneath it was only despair.

“Please, just not skooma,” he whispered. “Anything but sskooma. I can’t…”

She cut him off with a scornful _tch_. “I don’t think that’s for you to say. We’ll see what I need you for, and you’ll do it. Just…Brand-Shei? Try not to outlive your usefulness.”

She thought he might be useful, and that meant he was alive, at least for now.

For as long as he consented to having her spider-silk wrapped around his throat.

 

* * *

 

As soon as she was gone, Madesi was at his side.

“What did she want? You look like you’re about to faint!”

“I’m alright,” he shook his head. He still hadn’t let go of his stall. “I’m alright.”

“I'm happy to hear that, but it’s not what I asked.”

“Madesi, you should go. She’s not happy with me, and I don’t want –”

Madesi flicked his tongue out, distressed. “What’s going on?”

With a conscious force of will, he flexed his fingers, feeling the joints creak. “She…” He swallowed, took a deep breath. He was alive. His racing pulse and churning conscience told him that he was alive. “She wanted me to do something, and I said no. She wasn’t happy with me. She…” he choked out a nervous laugh, “she felt the need to express her displeasure. You were right, I never should’ve gotten involved with that hag. But I think I’m going to be alright.”

Madesi touched his arm, perfectly delicate with his sharp claws. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be. She’s not so angry as to want me dead. I can make this okay.”

“Then you’ve done something good, marsh-friend. You reminded her that we still have the power to say no. I’m proud of you.”

His friend’s trust made him want to weep. He deserved it now, but for how much longer?

He laid his hand over Madesi’s, skin on scales on sleeve. “I’m doing the best I can.”

 

* * *

 

Brynjolf was back, shouting about his latest miracle potion.

Some guar-shit about Falmer magic, this time. Whatever s’wit really believed that the slimy salesman had retrieved some elixir from the godsdamned snow elves deserved to be parted with their septims. _See into the future? Find your true love?_ What a pile of rotten fish.

It was an open secret that he had ties to the Guild. However he supported himself, it couldn’t be through these sporadic sales of sham cures. He had to be a front for some larger scheme – such was the quiet consensus of the other merchants.

And then there was the fact that he left his booth unattended for weeks at a time, yet it always stayed vacant. If any of the rest of them vanished like that, their space would be reassigned in a matter of days – but Brynjolf always had a place to roost. Someone powerful had his back.

And really, there was only one such someone in Riften.

“Gather round, ladies and gentlemen! I have something truly amazing to share with you! Gather round to see a substance that will change your life!”

Brand-Shei’s first reaction was to snort at the pitch – but then he remembered. Maven. Maven was watching him, and he needed to prove his _usefulness_.

“Today, I bring you not merely claims, but a true demonstration of power! Gather round to see a young man’s life transformed – nay, saved! Come now to witness a miracle!”

He had to go. He had to play along, like some kind of idiot fetcher.

Because he _was_ an idiot fetcher, so he had to hand over his hard-earned gold as a gesture of goodwill to _fetching_ Maven Black-Briar.

He stepped out from behind his stall and gestured to Grelka. “C’mon. Don’t you want to see what he’s offering?”

Grelka raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“This might be our chance to turn our fortunes around! But if you want to miss out, your loss.”

Grelka spit on the ground. Brand-Shei pursed his lips and moved to Brynjolf’s little display.

“Witness, now!” A small crowd was gathering around the con artist’s stand. He was standing on a crate with a young Nord at his side. The youth’s right arm ended in a stump just below his elbow. “This brave young patriot was wounded in the heat of battle. He thought that his fighting days were over…but that was before he heard of my _Genuine Falmer-Blood Elixir!_ ”

The too-young veteran sadly waved his stump to the crowd.

“Falmer-Blood Exilir! Is there anything it cannot do? Tap into the lost magicks of the snow elves! Make love like a sabre cat! See into the future! Even…” he paused dramatically, “…regrow lost limbs!”

“Come off it, Brynjolf,” Madesi had joined Brand-Shei. “That troll fat salve was nothing more than rendered horker. Elgrim proved it. Why should anyone believe you now?”

Brynjolf’s expression went solemn. “Ah, I hear we have a doubter! Friends, let us praise the Nine for skeptics, because skeptics offer a chance for proof!” He lifted an ornate red bottle with a flourish. “Here it is, fair citizens of the Rift! Falmer-Blood Elixir! Attend closely to its profound and mysterious power. As he is now, poor Eirik has no hope of rejoining his brothers-in-arms, but with just one bottle…watch!”

He uncorked the bottle and handed it to his accomplice. The boy brushed his stump over his amulet of Talos, looked to the sky with fervent gaze, then downed the potion.

There was a pause, some scattered snickers. Then Eirik’s arm started to glow. It grew to a golden blaze; Brand-Shei watched until he had to shield his eyes. The boy roared as if he were charging into battle. When Brand-Shei could look again, Eirik was staring at a full hand. He dissolved into tears.

It was obviously a cheap trick with illusion magic, it _had_ to be a trick – but the bulk of the watchers gasped and applauded. Brand-Shei bit his tongue and joined them. _I hope you’re watching this, Maven. Watch me play along._

“Genuine Falmer-Blood Elixir!” Brynjolf crowed. Available today only! Step right up to take charge of your fate! Just forty septims to transform your life!”

Brand-Shei schooled his features into a witless gape. “What if he’s right? Maybe I should buy one!”

Madesi’s head swiveled around. “ _What_?”

Brand-Shei ignored him and nudged his way up though the crowd. “Maybe this is my big break!” he announced to no one in particular. “I could get rich, and stop selling these trinkets.” It was unnatural, to speak so loudly about someone else’s wares

Brynjolf pinned him with a broad, shining smile. “Just forty septims! Are you ready to change your life?”

Brand-Shei looked him in the eye and matched his grin, tooth for tooth. “More than ready! How much for two?”

He felt grim satisfaction to see the flash of surprise in Brynjolf’s face. _You weren’t expecting that, were you?_

“Sixty septims for a pair.”

To hand over so much money was utter folly. “What a steal! Sounds like this is just what I need right now.”

“Much good may it do you, master elf! Blessings be upon you!” He was used to giving false warmth, but to have it returned with such enthusiasm made his skin crawl.

He accepted the proffered pair of bottles and headed back for his stall. Madesi was blinking at him in disbelief.

“Maybe this is just want I need,” he proclaimed again as he strode past his friend.

Others followed him up to the stand, then. He didn’t want to watch, but couldn’t tear his eyes away. Every septim that was handed over to Brynjolf was a septim in the purses of the Guild, a coin that didn’t go to honest merchants. From the looks of it, it was quite a lot of coin. _I hope you’re happy, Corners devour you all._

Eventually, the crowd began to thin. Madesi moved from where he was flicking his tongue at Brynjolf and returned to his table.

Whatever he saw there made him screech. It was an awful, avian sound.

“Guards! Thief! I’ve been robbed!”

 _Thief!_ Brand-Shei was instantly on his knees, checking if his strongbox was still locked. It was, ancestors be praised.

But poor Madesi! He was gesturing now at a group of guards, tail thrashing in acute distress. Of anyone in the marketplace, his wares were the most valuable. If a thief had cleared out his display case, he would be ruined.

After questioning Madesi, the guards moved to the middle of the market’s circle. One of them banged the handle of his sword against his shield to draw attention to himself. “Listen up! Some lowlife broke into Madesi’s stall and made off with a valuable ring. It’s silver, with Argonian designs. If anyone has information, tell it to us immediately. And, merchants, if anyone tries to sell you such a ring – take note of who it is!”

Just a single ring, then. Curious – if a relief – that the thief didn’t make off with more. Perhaps the swamp-scum had been interrupted before completing the deed. Small mercies.

The guards fanned out to begin questioning the marketplace. Strange that such a small theft merited such an effort. Brand-Shei supposed that it was particularly brazen of a thief to break into a merchant’s stall at midday. Perhaps the guard wanted to send a message in return.

He looked over at Madesi. His tail had stilled, but his feathers were still sticking up at frantic angles. Brand-Shei touched his purse, sympathetic. He knew that the pain of a theft wasn’t just in the loss of property; it was in the violation. A thief destroyed your peace. What was once safe became uncertain. The world turned hostile and insecure. Much more had just been taken from Madesi than just a single piece of jewelry.

_Isn’t it enough for you fetchers to torment me? Do you really have to harass him too?_

And a grimmer thought: _If he wouldn’t have challenged Brynjolf, would they have let him alone?_

Suddenly, a guard marched up to his booth, sword drawn. Brand-Shei cocked his head in confusion.

"All right, Brand-Shei. Turn out your pockets, we know you have it."

Brand-Shei didn’t recognize the guard’s voice. He blinked. "Have what? What in blazes are you talking about?" Surely they didn’t think…Madesi’s ring…

"Don't play stupid. I said turn out your pockets... now!"

He laughed at the absurdity of it. "I'm telling you, I don't...” He shrugged and thrust his hands into his pockets, ready to show them empty –

And found a small metal circle inside.

Slowly, he pulled it out. It was silver, engraved with delicate Saxhleel scrollwork.

He dropped it on his table like it had just grown fangs. “This isn't mine!"

"That's right. It isn't yours. You're under arrest, Brand-Shei."

This couldn’t be real. There had to be some kind of mistake. "This is insane! I didn't steal anything! Madesi is my friend, I would never…!"

"We can do this one of two ways.” Brand-Shei nodded and spread his hands peaceably. _Choices. Choices are good._ “You can walk with me up to the keep, or I can drag your lifeless body. Your choice."

The threat of violence hit him like a slap, shocking and humiliating. "But... I...” He was trapped. She had framed him, that was the only explanation, and now the guard was threatening to run him through for petty theft, and… “Very well."

“Hands behind your back.”

Trembling, he clasped his hands behind his waist. The guard slammed his chest down onto his own stand, scattering a display of little flin cups. He cried out in pain and protest, then felt cold iron locking around his wrists.

The guard yanked him upright by the collar of his cloak. “Thieving elf scum,” he growled in his ear. “It’s off to the dungeons with you. Now move!”

Numbly, he began to walk. “I didn’t do it,” he gasped. “I didn’t. We’ll get this all sorted out and you’ll see I was framed, I didn’t –”

"Shut up.”

And then he was being paraded through the square, bound like a criminal. The humiliating gazes of the crowd were like something out of his worst nightmare. Ancestors, he hated attention, and attention like this... He knew they had thought him strange, but at least they had thought him honest. He scanned their faces, looking for any hint of compassion, but saw only cruel curiosity.

He wished the canal would swallow him whole. His customers were staring at him, Grelka was staring at him, Madesi -

Madesi was staring at him, his scales gone pale with shock. Madesi, who thought he’d been betrayed. His one friend. Surely he would understand.

“Madesi! Madesi, I swear, it wasn’t me! I’ve been –”

The guard cuffed him in the back of the head. “I told you to _shut up_ , thief.”

He stumbled. The blow made his vision swim.

He fought to regain focus and desperately craned his neck around, yearning to find Madesi. If he could just make eye contact, if he could have one more chance to communicate his innocence –

But by the time he could see again, Madesi’s back was turned. Everyone was staring, except the one person whose opinion mattered.

So this is what Maven had wanted from him. She didn’t just want him weak, she wanted him broken.

And if that’s what she wanted, there could be no fighting it.

Brand-Shei slumped, defeated, and let himself be led down to the dungeons of Mistveil Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action? Instead of just a bunch of people talking? In my fic??


	8. Azura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over 20k words and we're finally out of Riften.

Teldryn Sero was not a particularly pious Dunmer. Devout mer like Aranea Ienith, alone on her mountaintop with a great big statue, did their people proud, but would always be a mystery to him. As he saw it, the gods of his people were best honored through action, not through songs and rituals and impractical robes. He made appropriate offerings and swore inappropriate oaths, but he never prayed.

But when he heard the voice of Azura herself, he had sunk to his knees in the snow. It was an automatic response, one that he wasn’t even conscious of until he felt the cold seeping up through his greaves. There he had stayed while she spoke, while Erebis entered her Star, and while, his soul returned to his body, the Dragonborn received her blessing.

“Farewell, mortal. Know that Azura will be guarding over the threads of your fate in the twilight.” Her voice was something of a whisper and something of a song, intimate and imperious all at once. This was the voice that had guided Veloth eastward, and the Nerevarine to the truth, and her chosen few away from Red Mountain’s fury.

And now he was hearing her, and feeling her look on him in favor. She knew everything…and she knew _him._ Yes, she was talking to his lofty employer, but he could feel her approval in his bones. Azura had seen him and smiled. He blinked back an unexpected wave of tears.

Whatever Erebis had encountered in the Star, he had obviously cleansed the thing, and Azura was _pleased_.

They knelt there in the howling wind, adventurers and priestess, even though they had clearly been dismissed. Aranea was openly weeping, Erebis fervently whispering an ancient Dunmeri prayer. 

Teldryn…Teldryn was _basking_.

“Lord of Twilight,” Aranea choked out after a few minutes. “Mother of Roses. Mistress of the Unknown Veils. We thank you for your guidance. Bless us now and always, and we will serve you with all our hearts.” She stood, and the others followed her to their feet.

“Well done, Guardian,” she turned to Erebis. “You – you have served Our Lady well. The Star is now yours to protect. Use it with pride.”

“Aranea,” he placed his hands on her forearms, “what’s wrong?”

Her wind-worn face crumpled in misery. “While you were in the Star, I had a vision from Azura. Her last, she said. I have never been without Azura's foresight since escaping Morrowind. I’ve never…” she choked on a sob, “I’ve never been alone like this. I don’t know what I’ll do." 

“Follow us,” Erebis said immediately, because of course he did. “We’ll accompany you to Winterhold, and from there you can catch a cart to wherever you’d like. I’m happy to pay for your trip if you need. Or stay at the college; the Arch-Mage is a faithful Dunmer and I’m sure he’d welcome –” 

“No,” she cut him off, stronger now. “I still have my duty. I must stay here and tend to the shrine. Azura blessed me with her favor and I cannot leave.” 

Erebis bowed. “Your devotion honors us all.” Teldryn thought it seemed a bit much, to be stuck up here in the cold after Azura made it clear that she was done with her, but if it’s what made Aranea happy…

“I thank you.” She dabbed at her tears with her sleeve, dignified and precise. “But before you go, I must ask one more thing of you. You are her Guardian now, and there are certain rituals…” 

“Of course. Whatever Our Lady requires.” 

“Again, I thank you, Guardian.” She walked over to the rosebushes that flanked the altar. Their survival in this damnable weather was proof enough of a supernatural blessing, but at Azura’s voice, every bud on them had burst into full, brilliant bloom. The priestess pulled out her dagger (good Morrowind ebony, Teldryn noted approvingly) and began cutting off the reddest flowers. When she had enough, she arrayed them in a ring on the altar, then sent a shining pulse of magicka through them that wove their stems into a circlet. She brought it over to Erebis and looked expectantly at him until he pushed back his hood. She placed it on his head, then, red roses on red hair, and knelt at his feet. “Most blessed are you, Guardian of Azura, and most blessed are we whose threads weave with yours.”

Erebis nodded. Even wrapped in undignified layers of furs, he looked the full part of the chosen one, gracious and solemn and sure with a supplicant at his feet.

Good for him. He knew what role was his to play. 

Aranea stood and led them into the temple within the base of the great statue. The air inside was thick with the smell of rose oil. She opened a door off the main shrine that revealed a small room draped in faded red silks. Guardian and priestess knelt on cushions in the center; Teldryn propped himself against a wall to watch his boss get sanctified.

Erebis Adlam. It was a bizarre thing, to travel with a living legend. Teldryn knew better than anyone that he ate and slept and shit like any other mortal. He got lost in thought on the road and tripped over rocks. He fastidiously kept a journal, but his handwriting was a wretched scrawl. Rain made him short-tempered. He was too generous by half, overburdened by guilt that he had no business shouldering, and curious to the point of recklessness.

And he was the Dragonborn, destined to save the world if he didn’t get himself killed first – as well as the champion of Meridia and ( _ugh_ ) Malacath. And now he was the holy Guardian of Azura, removing his robes before a chanting priestess.

In the flickering candlelight, Aranea anointed him with ash mixed into fragrant oils, then did the same to the Star. She painted swirling red designs on his dark body, then baked them onto his skin with bursts of flames that made him gasp and wince. She taught him the words to a rite for emptying the Star of a soul, and made him repeat it over and over until he perfectly committed it to memory. She said a frankly excessive number of prayers, laying hands on his brow, his hands, his chest. Teldryn only half-listened, instead allowing the incense and the raspy, half-understood flow of Dunmeris to lull him into a trance.

“Just one thing remains,” she said, startling Teldryn back to himself. It was the first Cyrodiilic she had spoken in hours. “I cannot force it on you, but I urge you to assent. This goes for you too, Teldryn. You served her ends and heard her voice; this honor can be yours as well.”

“What is it?”

She unclasped the top of her midnight-blue robes ( _oh?_ ) and pulled them down to reveal a small, stylized tattoo of the Star just beneath the hollow of her throat ( _oh_ ). “It is a mark granted to her faithful. I would share it with you, if you will take it.”

“It would be my honor,” Erebis replied. Aranea pressed her hands to her chest in gratitude. She looked at Teldryn.

“I suppose I’ll take whatever blessings I can get,” he shrugged and started unstrapping his chest plate. “But you’d better have a steady hand.” The quip came easily, but in truth, the prospect of being marked filled him with warmth. It made him think of _that voice_.

Their fresh tattoos healed and anointed, they set about helping Aranea prepare dinner. Conversation was sparse; what more was there to say after hearing a god? They fell asleep on cushions like Ashlanders in a room with space for a dozen priests, warm and full, far away from the wind and snow outside.

Too few hours later, Aranea shook him awake. It was time for them to go greet the dawn.

The Dunmer who built the statue had picked a damnably cold, damnably remote place for their shrine. Teldryn wasn’t entirely surprised that Aranea’s compatriots had long since returned to civilization, or whatever sorry attempt at civilization Skyrim had to offer. To be bound to this spot forever… The thought made him shudder.

But the mountain did offer a spectacular view of the rising sun. Teldryn had a rule of only singing when drunk, but he murmured the words of the ritual song under his breath as Aranea and Erebis lifted their voices into the frigid morning air _. We praise you, Lord Azura, for this new day, and all it is fated to bring. Guide us now and always, in shadows and in light._

He looked up at the towering figure of the goddess, a monument to his people’s undefeatable will. The Lord of Dawn and Dusk had blessed them. They were guided. Perhaps they could actually pull this whole mad quest off.

The rite completed, Erebis embraced Aranea. “Reclamations and ancestors guide you, honored sister. Your path is not easy, but I know you will not go unrewarded.”

“Thank you, Guardian. I can never pay you back for what you have done.” They released each other.

Erebis walked over to the edge of the platform and scanned the northern horizon. “It really is beautiful up here. I love how our people are unafraid to seek out the glory of the harshest places.”

“Our gods have taught us well,” Aranea intoned. “Where will you go now?”

“The College, for some research, and then...” he trailed off. “Is that a wreck on the coast?”

“I believe so,” she responded, nonplussed. “I can just barely make it out on clear days. It’s been there for as long as I can remember.”

“Dunmer?”

“It can’t be man-made, if it’s lasted this long. Why?”

“Teldryn…go get the spyglass. I have a hunch.”

Erebis’ voice was hushed with anticipation, so he complied, jogging down the stairs to dig through their packs. When he returned, Erebis broke off his line of questioning Aranea and snatched the tube from him.

“That’s a chitin hull. It has to be. Wood doesn’t have those curves.” He closed the tube. “It’s time for us to go examine a wreck.”

“Not that I’m averse to scavenging for loot…but what on Nirn is going on?”

“ _The Pride of Tel Vos._ ”

“What?”

“The ship that Brand-Shei, that Riften merchant, was searching for. The one that carried Telvanni refugees. I think that’s it.”

Teldryn balked. “And you would think that…why?”

“We’re on Azura’s mountain, and I spotted a Dunmer shipwreck.”

“Have you…did she send you a vision?” Aranea asked, a pained note in her voice. _You poor, sad bastard._

“No,” he shook his head. “Not like that. It’s just…here we are, and there it is.” He touched the spot where his new tattoo sat under his furs. “I don’t think there’s such thing as coincidence in this place. I have to go see.”

“You saw a shipwreck because we’re on a mountain overlooking the sea,” Teldryn snorted. “What do you think you’ll find?”

“I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go get the packs ready.”

“Thank you Teldryn. I think…I think this could be important.” He clasped Aranea’s hand. “Pray for us, and for our people.”

“Always, Guardian.”

 

* * *

 

Whatever magic the landscape had held from the mountaintop, it was long gone. Clouds had blown in as the made their way down to the sea, and now everything was an endless vista of gray: gray sky, gray slope, choppy gray sea. He hated the cold. He really, truly hated it. Even if he wrapped scarves around his face until he looked, in Erebis’ words, _as neckless as a guar_ , the chill somehow managed to make his teeth ache.

“This had better be worth it,” he snarled as he stomped through the interminable snow. “Azura or not, if this isn’t your _Pride of Tel Vos_ , I’m going to be incredibly cross.”

Erebis extended the spyglass. “I can’t quite see the name, but that’s certainly a Morrowind ship. Oh.” He braced himself on a knee and leaned forward. “And there’s smoke rising near it. Someone’s built a fire. We’ll need to proceed with caution.”

That was something, at least. Nothing warmed Teldryn like a good fight.

It was slow going, made slower by the way that Erebis insisted on pausing every few minutes to take another look at the ship. “We’d be there by now if you would just _walk_ ,” Teldryn observed as he signaled for a stop for what felt like the fifteenth time. His boss’s curiosity often beat out his common sense.

“Just a moment…I think I can…” he fiddled with the lens. “If I just…blessed Three! That’s really it! _The Pride of Tel Vos!_ I can just make it out!” Erebis laughed triumphantly. He turned his face to the sky and drew a triangle over his heart. “Lead us onward, Lord Azura!”

Teldryn felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He looked back up the mountain to where the statue was obscured by the whipping snow. _Did she really…?_ His hand drifted to his new tattoo. _Well, Lady. Color me impressed._

They picked their way down to the rocky coastline. Cautiously, they approached the ship, making sure to keep themselves hidden from sight. In front of the wreck, a gruff-looking group of Nords in mismatched armor were circled around a fire.

“Bandits,” Teldryn whispered. “Just look at them. You know they’re bandits.”

“Perhaps,” Erebis murmured back. “Or they’re wanderers taking shelter. We have to give them a chance.”

“Like Oblivion they are. If they don’t attack us on sight, I’ll forfeit my share of the spoils.”

“If they’re peaceful, then the only spoils we’ll take will be those pertaining to Brand-Shei.”

Teldryn grinned beneath his scarves. “Win-win.”

“Fetcher,” Erebis grumbled. “Well, here we go, Azura guide us.” He stepped out from behind the rock. “Hello, there!” The group leapt to their feet. As they threw off their blankets they revealed matching red marks painted on their gauntlets: bandits, no doubt about it. Erebis spread his empty hands and smiled. “We have no interest in making trouble for you. We only want to have a brief look around the wreck. We’re travelers searching for something from Morrowind and believe it may be on board. We’ll be happy to compensate you for whatever we find.”

In response, they began drawing a nasty array of weapons. Teldryn could see the naked calculation on their faces: two lightly armored Dunmer against eight Nords. Their odds looked good. Erebis had even proclaimed that they were carrying money, the guileless s’wit.

“An interesting proposal,” their apparent leader drawled, swaggering ahead of his lackeys. “How about I make you a counter-offer: you give us all your valuables and we let you leave with your lives.” The pack of lowlifes chuckled.

“I _told_ you so,” he grumbled. “We could’ve got the jump on them, but _no…_ ” He drew his sword in his right hand and began weaving an armoring spell with his left.

Erebis readied his hands in casting position. “I don’t want to fight you. But if you force us, we will show no quarter.”

The leader beat his mace against his shield and his gang fanned out behind him. “Hear that, boys? Get them!”

Fireballs flared to life in the Dragonborn’s palms. He drew in a deep breath. The skin on Teldryn’s neck prickled in anticipation.

“YOL…TOOR!”

 

* * *

 

The bandits reduced to smoldering hunks of flesh, they turned their attentions to the ship. What they saw didn’t look promising. The rocks and strain had proven too much for even the chitin hull, which had split in half, the prow half-submerged in the waves. This was going to be dangerous scavenging – assuming that anything even remained onboard.

Erebis tested the rough ladder leading up to the tilted, fractured deck. “Looks like it should hold.”

“Lead on, then.” They clambered up.

Holding tight to the railing, they crept across the ship and descended down into the hold.

Inside, the cabins were picked clean. Generations of scavengers had done their work; even the woven chairs had been torn apart for their chitin frames.

“Check everything,” Erebis directed, bracing himself on the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. “Every chest, every ruined book, if you can find even a single line of writing… Anything could be a hint, if we’re just persistent. We haven’t made it this far for nothing.”

They began with the captain’s quarters in the stern, searching for a remainder of a manifest, but it was the barest room of all. Those searching for loot had known to start with the captain’s riches. Teldryn tore off his helmet to put an ear to the wall. He tapped at the smooth plates, hoping to reveal some clever Dunmer trick concealed in the chitin – but nothing.

From there, they dug through the crew’s living spaces. They were almost as bare, holding mere echoes of the Dunmer who had once called them home: a line of Daedric-lettered graffiti on a wall, a shalk-antenna quill still set in an ink tray, half a chitin pipe forgotten on the floor. Teldryn tried not to dwell on the fates of the sailors. What had they left behind when they fled Morrowind? Had any of them made it to safety in Winterhold, until Winterhold made them exiles twice over?

At least there weren’t any skeletons. This place was sufficiently full of ghosts without containing any literal unquiet, unconsecrated dead.

Still empty handed, they moved down into the common quarters. Daylight streamed in through the broken end; at the other side pooled the icy water of the Sea of Ghosts. A few dangling ropes hinted at the hammocks that had once swung from the beams.

There were yet a few chests and barrels tucked into corners and lashed to beams, but the chests all gaped open. Carefully, Teldryn scooted over to one and peered inside; it contained only moldering rags.

“Well. Isn’t this _fun_.”

“Keep looking,” Erebis opened a decaying book and winced. “There has to be _something_ left.”

“Remind me why we’re doing this? And don’t you dare just say ‘Azura.’”

Erebis shot him a sidelong glance and fetching _winked_. “Azura. Plus, we said we’d help.”

“ _You_ said that _you’d_ help.” Teldryn lifted a moldy scrap of fabric out of the chest and tossed it aside. “You’d also said that you’d be saving the world from dragons, but here we are.”

“This Brand-Shei… There aren’t many of our people who get along with Argonians, and fewer still who understand them. If there’s anything I can do to look out for this one…”

“You and Argonians! You know you’re not your ancestors.”

Erebis sighed impatiently. “I know. That’s rather the point.”

Teldryn shrugged and went back to poking at rags.

They worked their way down to the waterlogged end of the ship. An assortment of trash floated in the pool: broken bits of a barrel, the cover of a book, a mostly-submerged chest. Erebis, using a barrel stave, nudged the chest over to the exposed deck.

“There’s a book in here, but the water…” He pulled off his glove and fished it out with a grimace. Then his eyes widened: it looked completely dry. He scooped up a handful of water, and poured it onto the cover; it rolled off like rain off an Argonian’s head.

“Not a bad trick,” Teldryn commented. “Does it say anything?”

Erebis opened the book. His eyes quickly scanned the first page. “There’s writing here. …Hidyra Olen…”

“Well?” Erebis shook his head and held up a finger. From the tense stillness in his frame, he had found something big.

He read through the journal, then read it again. At long last, he up looked wonderingly at Teldryn. “Azura’s grace, this is it. This was written by Brand-Shei’s father. From what it says here, he…he may well be the last full-blooded Telvanni.”

Teldryn gave a shocked, sharp laugh. “Three and Four. You mean…”

“‘I name him now: Brandyl,’” he read, “‘son of Lymdrenn and sole living heir to House Telvanni. I will wrap him in his t’lonya and leave his fate to Azura’s will.’” He carefully closed the cover. “His father wasn’t just a mage-lord by skill or oath; he was descended from the original clan. And that makes him…”

“You’re saying that odd little marshmer has a claim to one of the ruling houses of Morrowind? The wizards aren’t going to like that one bit.”

“He was already the Ebonheart Pact made flesh, but now that he has _standing_ … Do you know what this could mean?” he was practically quivering with excitement.

“Not a clue.”

“Me neither, but I’m certain Azura isn’t done with us yet. Winterhold can wait. We’re going to Riften.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update? Double update. I need to take a break for a few weeks here to focus on some other things, but I promise I'll be back soon.
> 
> All credit to Mortigaunt's "Dragon from Ash" (which is _amazing_ and you should go read it now) for the idea of chitin ships. I couldn't help taking it, because it's the best explanation for how the _Pride of Tel Vos_ lasted so long.
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr and we can debate whether Dunmeris is a living language, or if, as I suspect, it serves a primarily liturgical function. brand-shei.tumblr.com
> 
> ETA: Fun fact, to make ash stick to your skin, mix it with oil. If you see Christians walking around on Ash Wednesday with sad gray smudges on their foreheads instead of nice, defined black crosses, go ahead and judge their church's leadership because those clowns obv. don't know how to ash it up right.


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